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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24062407">Dark Pines</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/baeconandeggs/pseuds/baeconandeggs'>baeconandeggs</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klavier/pseuds/Klavier'>Klavier</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>EXO (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Dark Fantasy, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Mild Horror, Minor Character Death, Religious Undertones</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 18:54:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>50,304</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24062407</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/baeconandeggs/pseuds/baeconandeggs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klavier/pseuds/Klavier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There are two empty boys lost in a hungry forest.</p><p>Chanyeol can't see their faces, but they feel familiar, so he follows their path. He knows these loud trees with the certainty of a dream.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Byun Baekhyun/Park Chanyeol, Kim Jongin | Kai/Oh Sehun</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>139</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>307</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>BAE2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b>Prompt:</b> BAE153<br/><span class="small"><b>Disclaimer: baeconandeggs/the mods is/are not the author/s of this story. Authors will be credited and tagged after reveals.</b> The celebrities' names/images are merely borrowed and do not represent who the celebrities are in real life. No offense is intended towards them, their families or friends. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this fictional work. No copyright infringement is intended.</span></p><p> </p><p><b>Author's Note:</b> Happy BAE2020 y'all!!<br/>This is the longest EXO fic I've ever written and with it comes a boatload of gratitude. Thank you to the prompter, you absolute genius. Thank you to the mods who are, as always, very dedicated, professional, and sweet. Most importantly a huge THANK YOU to my beta, A, who brought so much cohesion &amp; stability to this fic and is just the best!<br/>I hope you enjoy reading, all comments and kudos are appreciated and feel free to chat with me on twitter @klavvrites! Take care and stay safe out there, friends.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Dark Pines Under Water</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Gwendolyn MacEwan</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>This land like a mirror turns you inward</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And you become a forest in a furtive lake;</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The dark pines of your mind reach downward,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You dream in the green of your time,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Your memory is a row of sinking pines.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Explorer, you tell yourself, this is not what you came for</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Although it is good here, and green;</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You had meant to move with a kind of largeness</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You had planned a heavy grace, an anguished dream.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But the dark pines of your mind dip deeper</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And you are sinking, sinking, sleeper</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>In an elementary world;</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There is something down there and you want it told.</span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<h4>
  <span>CHAPTER 1</span>
</h4><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There are two empty boys lost in a hungry forest.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>One is cursed and one is blessed. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Chanyeol can't see their faces, but they feel familiar, and he follows them. He can help. He knows these loud trees with the certainty of a dream.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>When the boys enter a colorful meadow, they reach for each other. Shoulder-to-shoulder and hand-in-hand. Chanyeol stretches to touch the smaller one’s shoulder, but suddenly the boys disappear in flash of light.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Chanyeol wakes with no memory of the dream.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But somewhere, sometime, there are two boys lost in a hungry forest...</span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>"So how much is your zipline package?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun taps a pen against his notebook. His calculated budget is written at the top of the page: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Absolutely fucking nothing.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He drains a mug of black coffee and sets it on the table with a loud </span>
  <em>
    <span>thunk.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"More than you can afford." Jongdae sighs over the phone. "Why?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"How much for the friend of an employee?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'm a park ranger, not the CEO." There's a rustling sound and a loud </span>
  <em>
    <span>caw caw</span>
  </em>
  <span> before Jongdae adds, "Same price. Oh, Jesus, the red-tailed just shit again."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun chews his bottom lip and starts stacking dishes. The house is falling into serious disrepair now that he’s teaching full-time, and the least he can do is stay on top of the washing, but he's distracted enough by financial woes that he almost drops half a bowl of oatmeal on his way to the sink. Charming.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sighs. "So there are no discounts at all? I thought national parks were supposed to be inclusive and accessible."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"That's a government farce. You haven’t been back to the park since senior year, why do you wanna come now?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I don't," he admits, turning on the faucet. With one hand he pours soap into the shape of a smiley face over a sponge and starts rubbing. "But Chanyeol loves going, and it's almost my birthday, so I figured I'd take him."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"For </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> birthday. Okay."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun forgets that he's alone and shrugs. The faucet is turned off. He shakes dry the bowl and mug. They go in a neat line beside the sink, on a threadbare towel in a patch of sun from the open window, where a singular spring spider is casting shadows of a beautiful web. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't care about celebrating."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There's a pause and another ruffling sound. Jongdae returns with a whisper. "Okay, manager's coming, gotta go. No promises but I'll double-check our packages, okay?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Okay! Thanks."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Bye."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun tosses his phone on the counter and inspects the somber state of his kitchen. Half a loaf of bread and some uneasy oranges are leftover for lunch. He’s partly disgusted; he took better care of himself in middle school, honestly, because at least then he had someone else to watch out for. Now he lives alone and, aside from his beloved high school friends, has no social life to speak of.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Niamh's Hollow Nature Reserve was his last-ditch idea for a grand romantic gesture for Chanyeol. He’s planning to confess his feelings for his best friend—and by </span>
  <em>
    <span>feelings </span>
  </em>
  <span>he means the hopeless, all-inclusive, close-up pining which has made him the butt of every joke since Jongdae learned to speak.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hopefully he can brainstorm a cheaper date before May. Otherwise Baekhyun will spend his whole life mute and cowardly, doomed to yearn for his best friend forever.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If only Niamh's Hollow had something</span>
  <em>
    <span> interesting</span>
  </em>
  <span> to do. Their only claim to fame is a nature reserve park and a once-haunted forest, Niamh's Wood, where kids went missing in the 80's. It made national news, so grandmothers on porches still talk like those were the endtimes. He's seen the black and white missing posters, frayed at the edges and half-eaten by goats, blowing onto Main Street even years after they were printed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Needless to say, everyone avoids Niamh's Wood. Baekhyun usually takes it a step further and avoids the nature reserve beside it. And the river beyond his house. And the mountain trails. Anywhere he feels marginally threatened, actually, because Baekhyun lives a risk-adverse lifestyle. He's proud of it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His phone lights up with a text.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To: Baekhyun</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>From: Chanyeollie</span>
</p><p>
  <span>[Att: 1 Image]</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>do you want lunch later? I caught a salmon this morning!!!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>[Att: 1 Image]</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>had to fight off this bear tho</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>hahahha jk but look she was pretty close to me!</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately, his best friend is a thrill-seeker. That's okay, because Chanyeol is the only risk Baekhyun will ever take.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To: Chanyeollie</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>From: Baekhyun</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>yeah sure see you at noon</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I'll bring berries ^.^</span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone knows better than to go into the woods. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun's heard the stories. Niamh's Hollow is a small town with lots of secrets. The people are steeped in tradition, and after generations and generations of passing down the same knowledge from grandmother to grandson, everyone is fearful of the trees. Kids step off the path and never come home. To enter the woods is to die.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His mother used to lecture him about it every day.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"That's why you shouldn't play on the basketball court behind the laundromat," Byun Jaein said, sitting up in bed and accepting a bowl of beef stew. Her eyes were bright that day, Baekhyun remembers. "You and the Park boy go there all the time. Don't deny it. I'm your mom, I know."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"But it’s still technically safe," fifteen-year-old Baekhyun complained. He sat on the edge of the bed and poured a cup of water for his mother to drink later. "You can see the street and everything. It's fine."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looked down at the soup, stirring but not eating, as usual. She managed a rare, wrinkled smile for her son. That's why Baekhyun remembers the conversation, years out of teenhood. It was one of the last smiles he got.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She said, "Don't forget the </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Never."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Don't lose your name."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I won't." Baekhyun rolled his eyes and slid off the bed. He took away the soup and passed over the cup of water. "I know better, I promise."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You see what happened to me. I broke my </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span> too soon, and I will pay the price." Byun Jaein drank a little, then sat back and closed her eyes. Afternoon sunlight threw a halo over her silhouette, dark hair spread underneath like swirling tentacles, sticky with cold sweat. Even dying, she was beautiful. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Mom," Baekhyun said feebly. "It's not your fault..."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I just worry about you. And I'm sorry that you have to worry about me, too."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At the time, Baekhyun didn't know what to say. He was young and terrified of his mother's withering body, not the woods at the edge of town, nor the spiritual limitation placed on his soul at birth. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don't lose your name, Byun Baekhyun</span>
  </em>
  <span>. His </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It was ridiculous; he'd never lose his name, and the trees had never hurt him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His mother's eyebrows, twisted in pain... that hurt every morning until she died, quietly, unremarkably, in her bed while Baekhyun was in fourth period biology.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But before that, when his childhood was still rosy and full of chiming bells, Baekhyun grew up in a tiny house at the base of a hill in Niam's Hollow, where his sickly mother and long-dead grandmother and great-grandfather and great-great-someone were all born. The house was old and wooden. It creaked in the mornings and whistled with the winds. There were more spots of mold along the ceiling than he could count and a stubborn queen wasp in the shed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And yet, he'd loved it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The ravens who nested in the eaves every autumn were his friends. When it rained, the kitchen smelled like jars of sweet spices and jam stuffed in the cupboard, gifts from pitying neighbors and handouts from the local food bank, which always had his favorites. He played in the weeds below the porch, chasing beetles and singing along to the busted radio that only knew the bluegrass station.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His childhood was sad and short, but the house was always a safe haven.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Even now, nine years after his mother’s death, Baekhyun slaves over the house repairs. He spends his free time weeding, vacuuming, dusting, tossing crumbs to the ravens, and when all that’s finished, he binges dance covers in YouTube. Sometimes he attempts to learn the choreography. Sometimes he succeeds.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After his unsuccessful call with Jongdae earlier in the morning, Baekhyun locks the door and heads out. He blows a kiss to the low stone wall protecting his house from wind, where a rosemary bush is stretching toward the sun. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Bye mom," he calls to the bush.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He still can't shake the habit of greeting her hello and goodbye.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's a rare, beautiful day with blue skies in every direction. Baekhyun tilts his head up as he walks down the the dirt road, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, enjoying the weak warmth. Spring has always been his favorite season, but especially spring days like this. Especially spring days like this when he's on his way to see Chanyeol.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He whistles as he walks. Houses pass, shudders drawn despite the gorgeous weather. This street is as familiar to Baekhyun as his own body. A pair of sparrows dart past his head, chasing each other in circles through the budding trees. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun's feeling so relaxed that he almost doesn't notice the car.</span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>A green sedan careens around the corner, ricochets off the curb at his feet, and squeals away. Baekhyun startles backward, hand flying to his chest.</span> <span>Fucking</span><em><span> shit</span></em><span>. The sidewalk is narrow here, he easily could've been clipped. His heart hammers, a post-adrenaline wobbliness taking over his joints so that Baekhyun has to stop at the corner and breathe for a second.</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The car was headed north, toward the nature reserve and the highway to the capitol. Good riddance. Hopefully the driver isn't a local. He never wants to see a green sedan again. Shaken, Baekhyun ducks his head and turns at the corner with the willow tree.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Missed Call: Sehun</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Joy bubbles in Baekhyun when he approaches the apartment. It's on the bottom floor of a small complex bordered by oak trees. Chanyeol and Sehun have a tiny porch-patio with a wicker rocking chair that Baekhyun's spent many an evening in, eating and drinking and shooting the shit. Today there’s a wayward squirrel crossing the patio on nimble feet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before he can knock, Sehun appears in the open doorway, cheeks flushed and out of breath. He's in his pink-and-white scrubs. His eyes are wide and red around the edges as he takes in Baekhyun's casual stroll. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun is not the type of person to appear flustered in public. He’s the type of person to spend forty-five minutes each night applying charcoal masks and get into Twitter arguments about the most environmentally-friendly bubble tea chains. Through some stroke of good fortune, or more likely an offering to a demonic deity, he graduated top of his class from nursing school and has enjoyed a comfortable, if exhausting, life. He’s the definition of the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>pretentious</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Baekhyun," Sehun calls, his hand wrapped around the doorframe. "I need you to come help me."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun hops up the porch steps. "What's up?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"It's Chanyeol." Sehun shuts the door behind them. "Something happened, I think he's sick."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes a moment for Baekhyun to process those words and look up from toeing off his shoes on the carpet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their leather couch is atypically clean, but that's probably because Chanyeol is sprawled across it, shirtless, with his eyes closed. Blood spots across his bare chest. His hair is glossy-black with liquid, and from this distance it's impossible to tell whether it's blood or water.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Both windows are thrown open behind the couch, shrouding him in afternoon sunlight. Various medical supplies are stacked on the table ominously. It looks like someone staged a horror movie in here.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun's heart leaps into his throat. He drops his bag and runs to the couch. "What happened?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Don't touch him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And—don't freak out," Sehun adds, crouching on the floor beside him. "Just put on some gloves. I need extra hands."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun can't understand. He was just texting Chanyeol this morning, confirming their lunch plans. Everything was fine. He obeys—no touching—but scrutinizes. Chanyeol could be sleeping if not for the odd red gouges on his chest and the half-completed stitch through the deepest one. Blood oozes from the wounds and the scissors are covered in dried red-brown muck. He tries not to feel queasy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Tell me what happened," Baekhyun repeats, pulling on a pair of his own gloves. His hands shake.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"He came home delirious and running a fever—"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Where did he go?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Let me finish." Sehun points to Chanyeol's shoulders. "Hold him down while I stitch."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Indignant and terrified, Baekhyun's hands close over Chanyeol's shoulders. His skin is familiar to the touch—Baekhyun has gripped these shoulders for various reasons throughout the years and his fingers fit perfectly above his collarbones.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun carefully resumes the stitchwork. "He was talking gibberish about some yellow flower in the forest. He took off his shirt and lost consciousness." He pauses to cut the thread. Chanyeol twitches. "These are like insect bites spreading outward from the right atrium in a perfect mandala. I've never seen anything like it. They just—look intentional. And deep."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Intentional insect bites? What the hell." Baekhyun studies the wound while Sehun cleans. "Why did he go back to the nature reserve at all? Or…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Chanyeol didn't say he went to the reserve, did he? The answer hits Baekhyun so hard he has to lean his elbows on the couch arm. His hands on Chanyeol's shoulders slip. Fuck. The forest. What if he'd gone into the mouth of the devil—Niamh's Wood?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As if coming to the same conclusion at the same time, Sehun's hands freeze around the hydrogen peroxide. They exchange a glance that says it all. If Chanyeol were stupid enough to wander into the woods, he could be afflicted with any manner of unnatural illness or curse, and they’d have no idea. The woods are forbidden for a reason.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"No." Sehun ducks his head and finishes disinfecting the wound. "He wouldn't have gone past the park."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"He knows better."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Everyone knows better."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"But what if he did?" Baekhyun’s fingers leave white marks on Chanyeol’s skin. "You know he's—"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"A careless motherfucker?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I would say reckless, but sure."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun sighs. “Well, you’re too soft on him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He's bent over the table, and despite years of med school and a cool head during a crisis—which Baekhyun hasn't actually seen before this morning—his hands are shaking, too. His face is turned away, toward the back window, where afternoon sun sprays halfway across the rug and illuminates the kitchenette counter. His body language says it all: this is bad.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Filled with an awful, nervous energy, Baekhyun starts pacing over the gray rug in the center of the room. He keeps his eyes trained on the popcorn ceiling, because looking at Chanyeol's crumpled body makes him feel off-balance and nauseated, like he might cry or puke or both. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is wrong. Chanyeol should be laughing, restless, fidgeting in his own oversized shirt. Not still. Not silent.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I don't know what could've happened in the woods," Sehun finally says. He laces his long fingers together. "We should still take him to St Anthony’s. Have them run some tests. Maybe I'm missing something internal."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Yeah." Baekhyun takes a deep breath. "Okay."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He forces himself to sit on the floor beside the couch. All his mother's warnings are swirling in his head, and he curses Chanyeol long and hard for being a dumbass and potentially screwing with nature. So many things could've gone wrong. Where does he even start?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There's one simple answer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun swallows. "Do you think... could this have to do with his </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span>?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The rule that Chanyeol must follow his whole life, or die. His destiny. His curse.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun doesn't want to think about Chanyeol somehow breaking his </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It's too horrible to be true—thinking that Chanyeol might be dying right there on the couch—but the circumstances are odd. Niamh's Wood, a mysterious illness, no known cause.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"If anyone knows, it's you." Sehun spreads his hands. "He never told me his."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"He never told me either." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun reaches for Chanyeol’s hand, seeking familiarity and comfort. His fingertips touch something soft and foreign. A crumpled paper falls from Chanyeol’s palm, where he must’ve squeezed it tight even in his sleep. It rolls tentatively along the floorboards and collides with the couch leg.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Heart leaping, Baekhyun scoops up the paper and unfolds it. The paper is a map of Niamh’s Wood with Chanyeol’s handwriting scrawled across the top. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The yellow fan-flower will send me home.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Chanyeol wrote this.” Baekhyun turns it to face Sehun. “Look, it’s definitely his handwriting. What does it mean?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun frowns. A thundercloud has gathered on his face and he barely even reads the words scrawled over the map. “Sounds like a load of bullshit. Maybe delirium from the fever.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It seems to be a real map, at least. The geography is detailed, drawn in thin black lines, and covers the entirety of the forest starting from Route 45 all the way until the capitol boundary. Three rivers weave together and intersect. Faded numbers at the corner proudly display a print date of 1982. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Or…” Baekhyun swallows. He can’t believe he’s about to say this. “Or maybe there’s a cure. In the woods.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun shakes his head before the sentence is even finished. “We’re not playing a guessing game. Fuck that. I’ll take him in now for a CAT scan.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You should.” Baekhyun digs around in his bag for his phone, holding the map tightly in one hand. “And I… will…” His fingers close around the phone. “Call Jongdae.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He has a bad feeling about the note. Chanyeol is rash but not wild, spontaneous but not stupid—he wouldn’t write something like this without good reason, fever delirium or not. The yellow fan flowers must be important. Maybe they’re herbs, a counteractant for some fast-acting poisonous plant that he accidentally ingested.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All Baekhyun knows for sure is that he trusts Chanyeol. If he said he needs yellow fan-flowers, he needs them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fine.” Sehun sweeps his tools aside and begins collecting items from around the room to shove into his bag. Keys, a crocodile-skin wallet, Chanyeol’s leather bag with the salmon still wrapped inside, a flask of water. “Help me get Chanyeol in the car after.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun stands in the sunshine from the window and calls his oldest friend for the second time that day. It goes straight to voicemail and Jongdae’s chipper voice shouts, “This is Jongdae, you just missed me! Leave a mess—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hangs up. It would’ve been nice to hear a park ranger’s opinion on these mysterious flowers, but Baekhyun won’t kid himself—his mind is made up. He’s going into the woods. If there’s any way he can help without a medical degree, he needs to try. Goddammit, Chanyeol.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Things happen fast. An hour later, Chanyeol is installed at a comfortable room in St. Anthony’s and Baekhyun finds himself dropped off at the edge of the woods, tossed into a quest he never wanted. Like a reluctant knight stomping through a dangerous forest in search of a cure for his sleeping beauty.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t die,” Sehun tosses blasé words from the window as he drives away. “I’ll call you with any test results.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The car disappears down the empty road. A tumbleweed blows past and catches in the roots of a tree.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Chanyeol wakes up, Baekhyun is going to </span>
  <em>
    <span>strangle </span>
  </em>
  <span>him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Unless Baekhyun gets strangled by his mother's ghost first. He can only imagine what she'd say if she saw him right now, toeing the grass at the edge of the gas station parking lot, completely alone and carrying enough gear for Everest and back. She probably wouldn't say anything at all. Just an eye roll and a disappointed tightening of her lips. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He walks up the road from the gas station, where a crooken wooden sign says NIAMH'S WOOD in faded yellow letters. The path ahead is hardly visible underneath a layer of stretching vines and mossy logs. A grasshopper the size of Baekhyun's palm skitters past his shoe. Is it a trick of the light, or are there more, a dozen or so skeletal creatures flitting through the bushes? The trees are so thick, he can only see dapples of light and layers upon layers of hypnotic green.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun checks the time on his phone. 2:03pm. He squeezes the straps of his backpack. He can do this. He has to do this.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For Chanyeol. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'm not afraid," he says to the woods.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun steps into the unknown.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>IN DREAMS HE REMEMBERS—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One hot day during the summer before high school, while Baekhyun waits for the laundromat to finish cycling through his and his mother's clothes, perched on the kerb and crafting a twig maze for the ants, he hears a basketball bounce.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's a unique sound. One he never hears outside the school gymnasium, since he's the only kid on his street. But somewhere here on the avenue, fifteen minutes' walk from his house, there must be a court and a player.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He peers through the cracked window to check the washing. Still sudsing and grating. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun kicks the twigs away. He sets off to find the source of the sound. Basketball is </span>
  <em>
    <span>way</span>
  </em>
  <span> more interesting than ants.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tucked behind the laundromat and a sit-down Italian restaurant, there's a kid in oversized Nikes shooting hoops. The court is fighting overgrown weeds and a rotting tree in one corner, where the asphalt meets the forest, but otherwise the area is clean and totally hidden from the street. Baekhyun recognizes the kid. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>—but it's too late to turn around. The kid sees him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Hey, Baekhyun." Chanyeol stops dribbling and waves. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Hi," Baekhyun says, freezing at the edge of the court. He didn't expect Park Chanyeol to know his name. Sure, there were only forty kids in their grade, but he and Chanyeol had never spoken beyond</span>
  <em>
    <span> can you pass me a paper?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun clears his throat. "What are you up to?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Practicing. You wanna play?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I don't really know how."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Suddenly he's hyperaware of how he dumb he looks—a kid wandering the streets during summer vacation, no friends to flock with, no teams or clubs or hobbies. He's proud of his jobs at home. He keeps his mom relaxed and comfortable. But he can't exactly show that off, and in the face of Mr. Park Popular with his myriad of well-known talents, Baekhyun feels... dull. Uninteresting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Chanyeol smiles. He's one of the few freshmen with no acne, and when his face lights up, he looks prettier and more sophisticated than anybody else in their backwoods high school. He bounces the ball towards Baekhyun and says, "I'll teach you."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Sure," Baekhyun says, then misses the ball.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Whoa." Chanyeol chases the ball and plants it on the asphalt. "Sorry, my bad."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He's hardly out of breath, even though the sun is high, and when he laughs it sends a twinge of embarrassment down Baekhyun's spine. Only thirty minutes left until the end of the wash cycle. Maybe he should just back out and avoid the humiliation. He's been admiring Chanyeol from afar for years, he's content to leave their relationship in the hypothetical.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"It's okay." Baekhyun shoves his hands into his jean pockets. "I should go anyway. Uh, I have—stuff."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Are you sure?" Chanyeol's arms fall to his sides. The ball rolls a bit closer to Baekhyun. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, it's okay</span>
  </em>
  <span>, is on the tip of his tongue. But a gust of summer wind rolls outward from the forest, tossing his hair into his eyes, and when Baekhyun shakes his vision clear, the basketball is nudging at his foot. Well. If that's not a sign, he doesn't know what is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He still hesitates. "Maybe one game. Are you on the team at school?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Not yet." Chanyeol crosses the court and snatches the ball. He dribbles it between his legs, moving across the space with grace and confidence. "Tryouts are in two months. That's why I'm practicing. Here, make a free throw."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hands the ball to Baekhyun. Their fingers brush. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol points to a faded white line on the ground. "Stand there."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Okay." Baekhyun almost trips over his own feet. His shoelace is untied. Great. Holding the ball with one elbow, he bends to tie it and straightens to see Chanyeol distracted, looking into the trees and frowning.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun follows his gaze and sees... trees. Some swaying branches. A squirrel to the right, leaping from a low-hanging branch to a holey trunk.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He clears his throat. "Ready?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Oh." Chanyeol snaps around. His eyes are a little unfocused and he shakes his head slightly as if to clear it. Like a dog after a bath shaking water—and worries—free from his fur. "Yeah, sorry, thought I heard something. Okay, go for it. Let's see your technique."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With no hesitation, Baekhyun lobs the ball toward the net. It skims the bottom and bounces off the center of the backboard. Chanyeol catches the rebound easily, and Baekhyun expects laughter, but none comes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Not bad, you have great aim. Do you play shooter games?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun crosses his arms. "Yeah. Sometimes."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Whenever he goes to Jongdae's house, sure. Maybe once a month or so. Not enough to impact his hand-eye coordination, but he feels lame admitting to Chanyeol that he doesn't care much for violence. Even animated.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Watch my wrist," Chanyeol says, and so they go.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's actually fun. Chanyeol isn't intimidating like he seems. He's kind, if impatient, and laughs at himself more than he laughs at Baekhyun. Soon sweat beads on Baekhyun's forehead. He dribbles down the court and shoots. Miss—again. But Chanyeol slaps him on the back in support.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun wipes his face with the collar of his shirt. "Show me one more time."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They play until Baekhyun abruptly remembers the laundry. He drops the ball like it's scalding and stammers an excuse. "I really have to go, sorry, um, I'll see you around."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, no worries." Chanyeol spins the ball on his index finger. "I'm here pretty much every afternoon." With his free hand he points to the Italian restaurant. "That's my family's place. Just stop by if you want to play."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun takes a closer look at the restaurant. Gold embossed font spells VIVA ARBOL over tinted windows. A tasteful fake grapevine drapes over the glass doorways. He'd never take a second glance at someplace like that—too expensive to care about, not when frozen lasagna tastes just as good. Probably.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He backs up toward the parking lot, toward reality, where the laundry awaits a dryer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Sure, sounds good." Baekhyun waves goodbye with no intentions of repeating this odd afternoon. "See you around, Chanyeol."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>IN DREAMS HE IS REMEMBERED. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The woods are quiet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun unfurls the map from his pocket. He checks the compass strapped to his backpack. The path under his feet is rocky and starting to scatter like light through the leaves—but he's walking in the right direction. Probably.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Caw-caw-caw</span>
  </em>
  <span> bursts from a bird above his head. Baekhyun startles and almost drops the map. Ahead the ground dips into a ravine and the path tapers off completely, leaving him to wander with shakey steps over the rocks and bushes. Here the trees grow so thickly together, their roots tangle in knots above the dirt. The light is dim and muggy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun wipes a trickle of sweat from the side of his face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>Don’t be afraid of the forest, he thinks.</span> <span>It's only trees and bugs.</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His legs are starting to burn. His feet ache. After what feels like an hour, Baekhyun pauses at the crest of the ravine and sits heavily on a fallen log, disturbing a line of ants. He checks the time. Still 2:03pm.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A breath catches in his throat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That's not possible. He's been walking for </span>
  <em>
    <span>at least</span>
  </em>
  <span> an hour. He unlocks his phone, but it doesn't seem to be frozen. Maybe there's something wrong with his automatic time zones? There's no signal, but that's to be expected.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun takes a swig of water from his bottle. He should be more than halfway to the center by now, anyway, where a meadow is drawn on the map. Prime real estate for flowers. Only a bit further. He flexes his feet until the ache subsides, then stands. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A blistering </span>
  <em>
    <span>crack! </span>
  </em>
  <span>makes him whip around. High above his head, within the canopy, a branch is breaking from its trunk. Baekhyun watches it tremble and fall—directly over his head. He falls back, tripping over the log and scrambling away, but not fast enough. A sharp bundle of leaves scratches across his face and stings.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Ow," Baekhyun gasps, rubbing at his face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His hands come back clean. No blood. But he can feel where the leaves touched his cheeks and nose, hot like nettle, and he fumbles with the camera on his phone to check his reflection. There's a straight red line across his face, burning over the bridge of his nose, like a recent scar. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What the fuck?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Reenergized by fear, Baekhyun presses a palm to his cheek in hopes of numbing the pain and takes off walking westward. Fuck this place. He should've brought antibacterial cream. He doesn't want to waste drinking water to wash his face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As he walks quickly over the underbrush, he tells himself, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I'm not afraid.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The words become less and less true.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Baekhyun doesn't slow down. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He thinks about one of his mother's favorite folk tales—and she had many—which she only told in the morning, over cinnamon buns, because it frightened Baekhyun so much the first time he heard it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"This is the story of how Niamh's Hollow found the map of the world," she said, passing him a mug of steaming hot chocolate. "You should know it."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I don't like this one. Can you tell me about the harp again?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She shook her head in that serious way. "Listen to me, Baekhyun. Long before people came to Niamh's Hollow, there was the forest and its creatures. Back then we spoke the same language. The trees called for settlers to come, advertising an Eden for humanity, but when they did, they found terrible things. Pests and lakes of blood. Inside-out spiders. Trees who leaned upside down and drank hair from people's heads."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Mom, that's gross."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"The settlers persevered further inward, but the horrors became worse. People went insane and forgot who they were. Those who survived—who made it through the forest to where we are now—found the most beautiful hills and rivers. A safe haven, just like the trees said. But people were angry at the forest for making them suffer. So they went back to destroy it."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her voice lowered to a whisper as she leaned over the table. "Legend says that as soon as they felled the first oak tree, the forest went silent. Nature took back its language from humanity. The settlers suddenly forgot how they'd gotten to Niamh's Hollow at all—their whole journey, their trials, their tribulations, and all those people lost along on the way. All forgotten. So they could never take revenge on Nature again."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"It's so sad," he said. "What a waste. To forget."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"It was a punishment for disrespecting the forest. The trees gave us </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span> next, to keep humans from becoming too prideful. To keep us in our place, subservient to nature."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"But the forest killed people. Of course they disrespected it."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"We are nothing compared to the will of the Earth." She tapped her fork against Baekhyun's untouched plate of cinnamon bun. "Maybe those people were going to die anyway, maybe they already had </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span> and broke them without knowing. That's why we obey our </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa </span>
  </em>
  <span>and why we don't go into the woods."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Sure." Baekhyun shoved a chunk of pastry into his mouth. "Hey, if everybody forgot their journey, where did the story come from?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s not exactly a fond memory, but it’s one he thinks of often, and the words are especially vivid now as he finds himself nearing the center of the forest, checking and double-checking the compass, regulating his breathing and listening hard for any more surprises.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Obviously folk tales aren't true, but parts are based in truth. Moral of the story: The woods are dangerous. He knows that. Dealing with it face-to-face—literally—is just taking a toll on his anxious brain.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then Baekhyun sees it. The herb.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A patch of tiny yellow flowers, shaped perfectly like fans, are sprouting from the roots of an enormous willow tree. Just beyond the roots, a stream gurgles over mossy rocks. The scene is picturesque and peaceful. Relief floods Baekhyun's chest and he hurries forward, picking over protruding roots and scuttling beetles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Finally," he breathes, reaching for a handful of flowers…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun hesitates. Checks the stability of the willow tree. Checks the dirt for spiders, or ants, or any manner of unworldly creature. Checks the stream—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The stream is made of blood. Not water. Whatever he'd seen a second ago was a trick. Thick, red-and-brown liquid is tumbling over the bed of stones, staining everything, seeping into the dirt. A smell that Baekhyun didn't notice before rises from its banks, hot and rank and reminiscent of body odor. He covers his mouth and leans back, trying not to vomit on the flowers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>From the depths, a horde of bone-white tarantulas erupt. They cascade in writhing ripples outward from the midpoint of the stream, their little feet pinkening with liquid as they scuttle and slink over the water, like perverted angels.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun breathes through his mouth and closes his eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He rips a dozen flowers out of the ground and stuffs them in his pack. He turns and sprints the way he came, vaulting over rocks and around low-hanging vines, sucking lungfuls of clean air. A bird screeches behind him. He doesn't dare turn around.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He runs straight as an arrow until his lungs burn. Chest heaving, Baekhyun slows at the edge of a clearing and drinks deep from his water bottle. The sight of that river was awful, a thing of nightmares. He shivers and pushes the memories away, away, deep inside himself where he’ll certainly need therapy to excavate the horrors later. There's no time to be a coward now, he needs to stay focused.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He's done it. The herbs are in the bag. Baekhyun checks the compass—he's been running the right direction, thankfully—and his phone. 2:03pm. He doesn't remember what time he entered the forest, but that sounds fine. He should be back to Chanyeol before dusk.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something feels off.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun stays very still and very quiet. A gentle breeze stirs the leaves, but otherwise the forest is serene, with the faintest whisper of sound coming from somewhere ahead. A collection of fallen logs draws his attention. There might be a foxhole there, but he sees no movement, and the whispers fade, so Baekhyun forces himself to relax. It's probably just nerves. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Didn't he check the time before leaving the gas station? </span>
  <em>
    <span>That's</span>
  </em>
  <span> what's bothering him. He can't remember now. It seems idiotic not to keep track of how long he's in here. Baekhyun double-checks the clock—2:03pm—and commits it to memory. Shouldn't matter. He should be back home soon.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A burgeoning confidence spreads in Baekhyun's chest. Who knew he could do this? Take on the woods alone and succeed. Little baby Baekhyun who used to run from streetlamp to streetlamp walking home at dusk. He touches the pocket where the flowers are.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'm coming," he says to the trees. "Hang on, Chanyeol."</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h4>
  <span>CHAPTER 2</span>
</h4><p> </p><p><em><span>A man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river</span></em><em><span><br/></span></em> <em><span>but then he’s still left</span></em><em><span><br/></span></em><em><span>with the river. A man takes his sadness and throws it away</span></em><em><span><br/></span></em> <em><span>       but then he’s still left with his hands.</span></em><span><br/></span><span>—Boot Theory, Richard Siken</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To: Baekhyun</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>From: Sehun</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>your phone probably died but call me back when you get this pls I’m worried</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>don’t you dare stay out there until dark</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>his CT scan looks good nothing wrong so far</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>IN DREAMS HE REMEMBERS—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On a summer night several years ago, before his mother's illness exploded through her body like a dying star, when Baekhyun was too hot to sleep, he crawled out of bed in search of water and accidentally eavesdropped on a whispered conversation between his mom and his aunt in the front room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"—have no one else to blame," his aunt hissed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He could see her bent awkwardly over the couch like she gripped the edge with claws instead of hands. Her voice was low and unfamiliar, a distorted version of her apple-pie persona, and Baekhyun for a moment thought he might be having a nightmare.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Please," his mother said. It was the first time Baekhyun ever heard her use that word. "Just don't let my mistake hurt our family further."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"What would you like us to do? It's too late."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Not for Baekhyun."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun pressed himself tighter between the top stair and the wall, as if his name could call him out from the darkness. Now they were arguing about </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. What an awful feeling, to be a child listening to adults disagree over you. A tiny lizard scuttled out from the floorboards and made eye contact with Baekhyun. He resisted the urge to grab it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Auntie Siwoo sighed. "Look, it's hard enough not to break my own </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span> without worrying about him. He will be just fine."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"We don't know that." His mother lifted a hand to grab her sister's wrist. "If I—If I can't—"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"He's got something ridiculous, Jaein! It's not like '</span>
  <em>
    <span>Cross the street only at dawn</span>
  </em>
  <span>'," Aunt Siwoo snapped.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The way she held those words tight in her mouth—</span>
  <em>
    <span>cross the street only at dawn</span>
  </em>
  <span>—gave them a physical presence in the room. They drifted. Baekhyun watched them float up the stairs and hang around his shoulders, and he felt the weight of them and understood. This was his aunt's </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was a ridiculously intimate thing to know about a person, even if they're family. He never knew his mother's. He knows his great-great-grandfather's, because it's a family joke that the roof of the ancestral house collapsed over his head the moment he accidentally ate carrot cake and broke his </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span> never to eat orange vegetables.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun felt cold all over. He hated knowing his aunt's </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa, </span>
  </em>
  <span>it was like he’d seen her naked and could never unsee. He didn't totally understand their argument and it was frustrating to get only part of the story. Still parched and sticky with sweat, he returned to bed and fell into a dreamless sleep.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The events that change Chanyeol from admired acquaintance to friend happen the following week, in the spring of freshman year, and they are unfortunate. It's a Saturday and Baekhyun is forced to attend his aunt's brunch party at the ancestral home on Wick St.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Where's your mom, honey?" Kim Siwoo strokes her nephew's hair in greeting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun has thought long and hard about his answer to this question. He knew she would ask. He stands up a little straighter in his aunt's foyer, leaning forward to avoid a cousin slipping through the crowd towards the cooler of beer in the corner. His collar is scratchy around his neck. Baekhyun clears his throat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Well," he starts, but his voice comes out too quiet, so he repeats himself louder. "Well. She's—"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Oh, Win, have you started the grill yet?" Siwoo's eyes suddenly snap to the double doors leading to the gardens. Her mouth stays open in an unattractive oval. She waves down an uncle's young girlfriend. "Dear, could you tell my husband to start the grill please? We'll never plate the steak on time."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The girl—oh</span>
  <em>
    <span> lord</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Baekhyun thinks he's seen her in the senior high building—nods vigorously and does a weird half-bow. She blushes and hurries outside, where a long white table is set with plates of bruschetta, kimbap, and caviar. An ice bucket of wine bottles punctuates each end.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"My mom is still sick." Baekhyun fists his hands together because he doesn't know what to do with them. He can feel sweat under his armpits. "She needs another treatment."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Siwoo swirls her glass of Merlot. She's looking anywhere but at Baekhyun, her eyes sweeping the room as if scanning for an exit. Sweat beads on her upper lip. She’s the type of woman to match her wine to her lipstick and clean the edge of her glass each time she takes a sip.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> "I know," she sniffs. "Nothing we can do, of course."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Actually, there is something you can do. She needs another treatment, and she won't ask for the money." Baekhyun crosses his arms. His aunt is making a face and his heart is beating wildly in his chest, but he can't be weak now, he can't give up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I see, of course. I'll have Win write a check this afternoon, dear." She leans down and kisses Baekhyun's cheek. Her smile is tiny and thin. "It's a real shame she's still going through this... illness." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her voice changes on</span>
  <em>
    <span> illness</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but Baekhyun is too relieved to process that. She said yes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did it. Finally dug up the courage to confront his family for their mistreatment of his mother and their disregard of her chronic illness—well, he kinda confronted them. Getting help with her bills is a step in the right direction, anyway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Buoyant with relief, Baekhyun lifts his chin and says, "Thank you, Auntie Siwoo. She'll be better soon, I bet."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun turns to walk outside and make nice with the rest of the family, as he was strictly told to do by his mother. But not before he hears Siwoo's quiet snort of laughter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Or did he? He looks back over one shoulder, half-confused and wondering if it could've been someone else, because why would Siwoo laugh at her own sister's suffering? Baekhyun understands the money situation is awkward. It's not ideal to lend out so much for so long, even to sick family. But Siwoo is already deep in conversation with the Mayor's brother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He must've imagined the sound. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun's ancestral home, over which he has no claim, is nothing short of magnificent. His mother's family has been in Niamh's Hollow for generations. Framed portraits of men in the corridor date back to the founding itself, when a great-grand-someone travelled through the woods to build this house out of logs and sweat. It's a three-storey wooden treasure with a rose garden and two marble fountains that Auntie Siwoo once petitioned to become a national landmark.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But within these walls, Baekhyun is a tiny and insignificant mouse. He grits his teeth and smiles and makes nice with all the elderly rich people who used to adore his mother, before she broke her </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span>, became a financial burden, and brought shame to the family.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He compliments his great-aunt's purse. He chases second cousins through the grass. He eats a piece of cake, even though mocha tastes like shit, because Win slams a slice onto his plate without asking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All in all, it's a terrible morning brunch party. He's relieved when the clock strikes noon and he can slip away to the stainless steel kitchen, where Siwoo is slicing extra cucumbers for the water jug in the dining room.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Isn't it funny, how rich people love cucumbers? Like they're made of fucking diamonds. Baekhyun is more of a pickle guy himself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He tries not to wrinkle his nose as he walks in. "Auntie Siwoo, I should go soon, but the money... When is a good time for you?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Tell your mother to come pick it up. I’m rather busy, but whenever is best for her."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Oh," he says, watching the knife move hypnotically over the vegetable. He loosens his tie a smidge. "She can't get out of bed much. I’ll pick it up for her."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Siwoo sets down the knife and gathers handfuls of cucumber slices into her hands. When she looks at Baekhyun over one shoulder, flicking away dark hair, she's not smiling. “She can pick it up here herself, or she can't have the money at all."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His Auntie Siwoo strolls out of the kitchen and greets her remaining guests with a radiant smile. Baekhyun watches the back of her head descend the porch stairs, in disbelief, in hopes that she'll look back and say, "I'm kidding, obviously."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn't. He should've known. It was all a trick.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So Baekhyun doesn't go home.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He rides his bike faster than he ever has, legs on fire, pedals squealing, until the familiar shape of the laundromat appears beyond the trees. He doesn't think about where he's going, he just wants to get away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's not fair. His mother is ill. Why does no one care that she’s suffering? Even the sky should feel it—his indignancy, this injustice. Why doesn't anyone step in? An adult, stranger or not. Why does Baekhyun have to do everything </span>
  <em>
    <span>alone</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He's riding so fast he doesn't see the cat. She's a tiny black furball, leaping from the dumpster at just the wrong moment, and Baekhyun collides with her head-on. He tumbles face-first over the handlebars and skids across the pavement. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Oh, shit." Baekhyun picks himself up with both hands. His elbows are stinging. The cat is sprawled across the boundary line for the basketball court, paws still.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What has he done?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He crawls across the hot asphalt to touch the cat's ear. There's movement—faint but visible—along her ribcage. God, he's almost killed her—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everything catches up to Baekhyun in one moment and, to his great embarrassment, he starts crying. Right there on the court, curled into fetal position and bleeding from the joints, with his bike a skeleton behind him, Baekhyun sobs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He's never felt so helpless. He's not a vet. Not a doctor. Barely even a son, after the way he's failed his mother over and over again. Why does the world have it out for him?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>From the trees he hears his name.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Startled, he looks up, but the forest is peaceful and unmoving. He turns and suddenly there's Chanyeol—impeccable, handsome, beloved Chanyeol, running towards him from the back door of the Italian restaurant in designer jeans and a beanie.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Baekhyun?" He crouches beside him, eyes wide. "What happened? You're bleeding."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This can't possibly be more humiliating. Baekhyun wipes his eyes and takes deep breaths. He tries to shield his face from Chanyeol, because he definitely looks puffy and red and stupid—but Chanyeol takes his hands and gently inspects the scrapes along his arms. The touch is tender so tender Baekhyun’s heart flips.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I’m fine. The cat," he manages to explain through a tight throat. "She came out of nowhere..."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A black cat, a bad omen</span>
  </em>
  <span>, his mother would say. </span>
  <em>
    <span>A sign of death.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Holding tight to one of Baekhyun's hands, Chanyeol brushes through the cat's long fur. He looks like he's stroking her, just easing the pain, until his hand stops over her thigh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Her hind leg is messed up."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"How do you know?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I can feel it." Chanyeol lets go to pull his phone out of a back pocket. "We're calling a vet."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun doesn't have a phone. He looks to the back door of the Italian restaurant, where he can hear faint jazz music. "Are your parents here? We could ask them." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Nah, I got this." After several seconds of searching, he dials a number and says, "Hello?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He speaks into the phone with confidence. Baekhyun's been playing basketball here all summer, and he thinks he's gotten to know Chanyeol decently well, but he's never seen his classmate in his natural state: as the hero. This is his first glimpse of golden-hearted, future firefighter, heart-on-his-sleeve Park Chanyeol. Of the man he'll become.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's a good look. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun follows instructions, relayed from the vet, about how to lift the cat into his arms without hurting her further. He cradles her like a baby. She's remarkably clean for a street animal, with only one patch of missing fur on her rump and no mange. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He follows Chanyeol blindly, listening idly to his chatter with the vet, before he realizes where they're headed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Is this </span>
  <em>
    <span>your car</span>
  </em>
  <span>?" Baekhyun stops dead in the middle of the parking lot. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There's a beat-up red 1963 Camaro parked adjacent to the laundromat. One window is rolled down and through it he can see wads of tissues, lipstick, and a stuffed gray dog tossed over the shotgun seat. From several feet away, it reeks of spearmint and cigarette smoke. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol finishes the call with a casual, "Yeah, we're headed over right now. Great. See you soon, thanks." He tosses his phone through the open window and unlocks the car. "It's my sister's, but she let me borrow it for the day."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The infamous Park sister, captain of the volleyball team when they won the district championship, who graduated last year, has never come up in conversation before. Nor has Baekhyun heard anything about her anachronistic car. He knows vaguely from town gossip that she moved far away for college. He slides into the sticky leather passenger seat, gingerly dislodging the tissues and lipstick, with the cat in his arms.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her breathing stutters. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Please drive fast," Baekhyun says meekly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol drives so fast it becomes a character flaw. He hangs one elbow out the window, looking like he should be chewing tobacco and wearing pensive sunglasses, like an old-time movie star, while the other hand rests relaxed on the wheel.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The wind streaks through Baekhyun's hair. Familiar landmarks, like the discount grocery store and the newly-redecorated movie theater, flash by as bumps of color. If not for the startling and unfortunate circumstances that led him here, he'd enjoy this. A lot. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Legally, Chanyeol couldn't have received his driving permit too long ago—months at best—but he takes the corners like an expert, screeching down the highway until they pull into a dilapidated parking lot with a flickering neon sign, washed out in the afternoon sun, that reads KIM VET. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun realizes he never even fastened his seatbelt. He takes a breath for the first time since they left the laundromat parking lot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"C'mon." Chanyeol throws the car into park. "How's she doing?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The cat is still breathing, that much Baekhyun can tell. "She's hanging in there."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He carries her like glass to the front office. Chanyeol holds open the door and shouts a greeting inside. There's a line of stuffed animals on the wooden desk, everything from giraffes to squid to a little black cat at the corner, a bona fide copy of the cat in Baekhyun's arms, that stare with glassy eyes as they approach. It’s horrifically creepy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Mr. Park?" A slim guy in ridiculous tiger-stripe scrubs rounds the desk. "Right through here please, let's take a look."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They shuffle into a sterile pastel room, where the young Dr. Kim—are vets doctors? Baekhyun doesn't know—instructs him to lie the cat on a table. He has a kind face, but he's not smiling while he examines her, and he asks Baekhyun to explain what happened in vivid detail. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"She just jumped in front of my bike, and it was too late to stop." Baekhyun sits in a chair covered by plastic. Too late, he realizes there's only one chair in the room, and he's just taken the option of sitting away from Chanyeol, who now has to stand. "Uh, I think I hit her head."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Good news, you didn't hit her head." Dr. Kim runs a gloved hand along her spine. "Or she'd probably be dead."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Oh."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Looks like the impact hit her shoulder. It's dislocated. So is her hind leg."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol crosses his arms and nods. "Knew it."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Can you fix it?" Baekhyun asks, even though he's scared to hear the answer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn't know why it matters so much. The cat is obviously a stray with no family looking out for her, and Baekhyun's seen street animals die before. His rafters are home to ravens after all. But there's simply something different about killing the animal yourself. He has a feeling the universe would be mad at him. His mother would definitely be—he resolves then and there to lie when he gets home.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Most likely, yes," Dr. Kim says. "She should be just fine."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol's hands rest on Baekhyun's shoulders and squeeze. "That's great."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The shoulder-squeeze is a bro move, one he's seen in the locker rooms but rarely finds himself the recipient of, and Baekhyun straightens subconsciously under the attention. It’s different from his tender treatment earlier, but still comforting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They're shuffled back into the waiting room while Dr. Kim works. Baekhyun and Chanyeol sit shoulder-to-shoulder in tiny plastic chairs, staring down the line of stuffed animals that looks to have tripled while they were in the examination room. Glaring artificial light makes the room feel stuffy and cramped.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Wow," Chanyeol sighs and scratches underneath the rim of his beanie. "This has been a wild fifteen minutes. I'm super glad I saw you guys out there."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Wild morning," Baekhyun mumbles, sliding down into his seat. “We’re lucky the vet was open.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"We're kinda like heroes."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun snorts. He readjusts so he can jostle Chanyeol's shoulder, emboldened by their casual touching earlier. He can do the whole friendly-touch thing. Baekhyun's a bro, too.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Spreading his knees apart, Baekhyun shakes his head and argues, "If she lives. Anyway, I'm the villain who hit her in the first place."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Nah." Chanyeol shakes his head. There are bags under his eyes—strange on his otherwise flawless face—but he keeps that perpetual smile when he looks at Baekhyun. "You're more like my sidekick."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Only because I don't have a car."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Bingo." Chanyeol does the unthinkable and taps his index finger against Baekhyun's nose. "Heroes have a car, sidekicks have a bike."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The injustice is too much to take. Baekhyun blinks furiously. "Did you just </span>
  <em>
    <span>boop</span>
  </em>
  <span> me?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, and?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Dude, that's—weird," Baekhyun says, but he's laughing and it's unexpected, the laughter ringing from someplace deep in his chest where he feels helpless and overwhelmed. "You—whatever."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Unbothered, Chanyeol hooks his ankles together and leans back. "You know, tryouts for the basketball team are next week."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Are you nervous? You're gonna be fine."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Yeah. So are you."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun shakes his head. He can't imagine playing on the basketball team, wearing those ridiculous red jerseys, and coming home late every day to his mom. She would be lonely. She'd never say it, but she would be.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He bites his lip. "I'm not trying out."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Sure you are."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I can't, Chanyeol."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Why not?" His face is open and earnest, and he immediately grabs Baekhyun by the shoulder to look him in the eye. "Don't doubt yourself. You've improved so much this summer."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To his embarrassment, Baekhyun feels himself blush. No one really compliments him, besides his mother when she's feeling well enough to speak, or the odd pitying teacher. Jongdae would sooner talk shit than talk him up. This is why everybody likes Chanyeol, why he makes friends everywhere he goes and leaves a trail of admirers in his happy wake.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I don't want to play competitively," he says.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It might be a lie, it might not be. He can't really tell. He likes hanging out with Chanyeol more than playing basketball, but the two go hand-in-hand right now, so he likes them both.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol releases his shoulder and squints a little. Through the open window, a breeze enters and moves the curls peeking out from beneath his beanie, like little fluttering feathers around his face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"If you're sure."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Yeah."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Keep your secrets, Byun Baekhyun." Chanyeol fishes a pack of red gum from his back pocket. "But we can still play together by the restaurant. If you want."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun accepts an offered piece. It's a burst of cinnamon flavor that does much to center him. Funny enough, he doesn't have secrets. This town is too small to hold secrets worse than a thirty-year-old cursed forest. If Chanyeol doesn't know about his dethroned and sick mother, he can find out in five minutes, because shopkeepers are gossipers and everyone knows everything about everyone. Especially in his family.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe someone in town knows his mother's </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Someone other than awful Auntie Siwoo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now </span>
  <em>
    <span>that's</span>
  </em>
  <span> an idea. Recently he’s been thinking about it and he wants to know.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun slides the gum between his teeth. "If you're not busy with practice, sure."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Are you in any afterschool clubs?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Not really my thing."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"What</span>
  <em>
    <span> is</span>
  </em>
  <span> your thing?" Chanyeol pops his gum obnoxiously. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun shrugs. "I like music. I like..."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He imagines himself on an ideal autumn afternoon. Classes are over, the sky is clear, and no one is waiting at home for him to take out the trash and mail the electric bill. What would he do? Maybe sit in the field and play music. Maybe dance. He likes to dance on the wooden floors of his bedroom, erratic and when no one is watching, accidentally hitting his fingers on the walls when he stretches too far. It makes him feel bigger than his body.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I like music," he finishes lamely. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol beams. "Me too. What instrument? Or do you like singing? You should join choral with me next spring."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Of course you're doing choral, too." Baekhyun scuffs his shoe along the linoleum. It's so easy to distract Chanyeol and get away with never answering his questions. "What an overachiever."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I prefer the term </span>
  <em>
    <span>involved</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Nerd."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Don't flatter me, I failed Chemistry."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The door opens. Baekhyun is on his feet before he thinks to stand. Dr. Kim in his awful neutrality is not smiling or frowning; he's writing furiously on a clipboard and doesn't look up to greet them.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"She survived," he announces.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Whew," Chanyeol exhales. "That's a relief."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"If you're willing to wait a little longer, you can take her back tonight." Dr. Kim rips off a piece of paper and files it behind the desk. "She'll be sore, but it's better to reunite her with the kittens soon."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun raises his eyebrows. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Kittens</span>
  </em>
  <span>?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Looks like she gave birth just a few weeks ago." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol says a bad word, then cringes. "I mean—really?" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For the first time Dr. Kim looks at them properly and smiles. "I'm not kidding, Mr. Park. You did the right thing bringing her here. I'd recommend paying to get her spayed in the future, though. It's a hard life for a pregnant stray."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol's chest swells under the praise. He nods very seriously, earnest in all moments, and crosses his arms. "How much was her treatment?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That's definitely a question they should've asked first. Baekhyun discreetly slides a hand into his front pocket, hoping for spare laundry money, but he feels only a wadded up gum wrapper. He bites his lip and doesn’t make eye contact with Dr. Kim.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But the vet shakes his head. “Free of charge for your good deed.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, sir.” Chanyeol reaches for a handshake that looks firm. His eyes have gone a little starry. “We’ll wait as long as she needs.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Baekhyun adds belatedly, voice quiet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It isn’t often he’s confronted with two kind people in a day. First Chanyeol dropping everything to help with what could’ve been a lost cause, and now this nice man working for free. What a contrast to his aunt’s stone cold stoicism. Compassion has a funny way of hurting the heart sometimes. Baekhyun presses a hand to his chest and sits back down, feeling his earlier tears swirling to the surface. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jeez, he’s such a crybaby. He ducks his head, mouth pulled tight, and scuffs his shoes on the linoleum in complete silence until Dr. Kim returns with a plastic crate.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They load her in the car after another vigorous handshake between Chanyeol and the vet. At first the crate sits lonely in the backseat, but then Baekhyun makes eye contact with the cat, whose yellow eyes are huge and darting around the interior of the car like it’s a live volcano, and he grabs the crate.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She can sit on my lap,” he decides, and Chanyeol shrugs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Whatever splits your river.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol pulls out of the parking lot and nearly destroys an innocent mailbox. Luckily the roads are empty this afternoon; they’ve just missed the post-lunch rush and they’re too early for the five o’clock traffic. Slamming his foot on the gas, Chanyeol shrugs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know,” he says, glancing down to check on the crate in Baekhyun’s lap. “Like, whatever flattens your trail.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No one says that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe I just read too many hiking blogs.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun snorts. “Maybe you do.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They careen down the streets, running two yellow lights and startling a flock of pigeons before arriving back at the laundromat and restaurant. Chanyeol hums a cheerful tune—vaguely familiar, something poppy and new?—and parks in front of VIVA ARBOL. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Carefully, Baekhyun slides out with the crate in his arms. The cat seems to recognize her territory, because she shuffles urgently inside and releases a short, pitiful </span>
  <em>
    <span>meow</span>
  </em>
  <span>. They carry her to the basketball court and Chanyeol peers into the dark corners around the dumpster.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t see her kittens.” He places his hands on his hips. “Where should we release her?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She’ll know how to find them.” Baekhyun sets the crate in the middle of the asphalt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s hot today, the sun gathering strength with each passing minute, and he wipes sweat from the back of his neck. The court is so quiet they can hear a cargo truck thunder down the hidden street. Sound filters through the trees and brick, muffled. As always, this space feels private. Baekhyun crouches and opens the grate.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The cat shoots away and disappears into the forest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun has only a moment to enjoy their golden feeling of success before the back door to the restaurant flies open. A tall girl with long, gorgeous hair stalks onto the basketball court with one manicured hand outstretched. Her face is a nice face, pretty beneath the frown, but she doesn’t spare Baekhyun a single glance as she rounds on Chanyeol.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Where have you been all day? Give me back the keys already. I called you </span>
  <em>
    <span>three times</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This must be Park Yoora. Upon closer inspection, she has Chanyeol’s wide eyes and perfect teeth, and but otherwise they’re opposites. Her fashion sense seems to start and end with </span>
  <em>
    <span>leather</span>
  </em>
  <span>. When she smacks Chanyeol on the shoulder, her hair flies back and reveals three-tiered dangling skull earrings. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You said I could borrow the car,” Chanyeol whines, rubbing his shoulder. He looks diminutive next to Yoora, even though they’re the same height. “I couldn’t check my phone, I was driving.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t say you could take it all day.” Her eyes land on the crate, which hangs open and facing the forest. “What’s that? Don’t tell me you had a fucking animal in my car. Chanyeol, </span>
  <em>
    <span>seriously</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I just had it cleaned.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun coughs to cover up his laugh, but no one notices.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It was only a cat!” Chanyeol waves his arms in a placating gesture. “She got hurt, we were helping her—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have allergies, dumbass. So do you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At this point Baekhyun begins inching away. His bike is locked to the pole across the court. Unfortunately it’s in a patch of sunlight and he can almost feel the burning rubber on his ass already—it’s not ideal, but he needs a quick escape. Chanyeol definitely doesn’t want him getting involved in family drama.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His plan backfires. The movement alerts Yoora of his presence, to which she’d been oblivious before, and she turns her fire on Baekhyun.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Who’s this? Sorry, I’m Yoora.” She extends a hand. Her smile is unexpectedly pretty, just as pretty as Chanyeol’s, and Baekhyun shakes her hand dumbly. He’s a little starstruck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol crosses his arms. “My friend Baekhyun. He was helping with the cat.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” Baekhyun says belatedly, hearing </span>
  <em>
    <span>my friend </span>
  </em>
  <span>on repeat in his head. “Nice to meet you. I actually have to go, sorry—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, you should stay for dinner. This is the one you’re always playing basketball with, right? Do you like Italian? Mom’s trying out a new</span>
  <em>
    <span> aglio e olio</span>
  </em>
  <span> recipe tonight.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I really can’t, I have to cook for my mom.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>Baekhyun snaps his mouth shut. He didn’t mean to say that. It reveals far too much about himself, and he hates that something so simple could ruin his feeble friendship with Chanyeol, but he doesn’t want to share jackshit</span> <span>about his home life. At least not yet.</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yoora looks unaffected, like she expected the refusal, and nods. “Maybe next time.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Awkwardly he gives a little wave. “Um, thanks Chanyeol. See you later. Bye.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then he walks as fast as he can across the court. His fingers are sweaty on the bike lock and it takes him several tries. Hopefully Chanyeol doesn’t think too hard about what he said. Or his suspicious exit.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Meanwhile, it’s like the second Baekhyun is out of sight, Yoora explodes. Even her attempted whisper is a scream. Baekhyun discreetly uses his helmet as a mirror to watch them fight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“—ever let you borrow it again, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew </span>
  </em>
  <span>I had to leave tonight, don’t be so inconsiderate.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why are you leaving? You just got back.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have class.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not tomorrow. It’s Sunday, stupid.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I want to leave. Okay? Is that what you wanted me to say?” There’s a pause and a frustrated sigh. “I hate this place. It’s too loud.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As fast as he can, Baekhyun wheels the bike to the parking lot, where he’s fully out of sight, and clips on his helmet. The seat and handlebars burn from the sun. He has to pause and let them cool in the shade for a moment—at least that’s what he tells himself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Really, it’s sick, but Baekhyun can’t stop listening. Is this what it means to have a sibling? Semi-public blowout fights and a shared car? He’s both disgusted and fascinated.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol’s voice barely reaches him, soft and crestfallen. “But they want you to stay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shut up.” Yoora immediately quips back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know you can hear them right now. They’re asking why you’re leaving again.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t care.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They miss you, just listen—that’s all you have to do.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yoora screams this time. “No! I wish they would </span>
  <em>
    <span>shut the fuck up</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s the sound of a slamming door. Baekhyun hurries to hop on his bike and pedal away, ignoring the sting of the sun. As he rides down the street, he tries to make sense of the argument. It sounds like Yoora doesn’t speak to their parents much at all. Like Chanyeol is the mediator between them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But who was Chanyeol listening to? There was no one else on the court. Parents, nowhere in sight. Something doesn’t make sense. Who would want Yoora to stay, if not Mr. and Mrs. Park? Who would be asking after her and talking to Chanyeol?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As Baekhyun passes under a gnarled oak, enjoying fleeting bits of shade, he lets his worries about the Park family take a backseat. He has bigger fish to fry right now—like figuring out a way to get the money for his mother’s medication. She’s definitely sitting in bed right now, worried and maybe hungry. He pedals until his legs burn and the sun falls far behind.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>IN DREAMS HE IS REMEMBERED.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun’s foot catches on a large stick and he almost falls face-first into a nettle bush. He has the fleeting thought of, if their situations were reversed, would Chanyeol do this for him?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yes. Of course he would. Chanyeol would run himself into the ground for the ones he loves, he doesn't have an ounce of Baekhyun's jaded attitude or Sehun's detachment. He would also be amazing at this nature quest shit. Hiking, swimming, cliff diving, camping... he'd been a joyful outdoorsman since they met.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Since they met…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>How did they meet?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun flicks an ant off his shoe. How exactly did he and Chanyeol meet again? He's blanking out. He's been so forgetful this trip, honestly, it's like the stress is frying his brain, but it must've been through school. They went to school together at—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Where did they go to school?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stops walking. No matter how exhausted he is, he can't have forgotten the name of their shared middle school. And high school. And how he met Chanyeol—the memory is on the tip of his tongue, the shape of it preserved in his mind even though the image is blank and dark. He can remember how Chanyeol smells, like jasmine and fresh sheets. He can remember the bad haircut from sophomore year, but other obvious details are escaping.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe it was a class. It must've been a class. Of course. Baekhyun tilts his neck back and stares up at the canopy of trees. "I'm going crazy," he mumbles, just to see if the leaves contradict him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No, you're not,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he imagines them singing in soprano to him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You're just lonely, Baekhyun. We're here for you. We'll guide you home.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He physically shakes his head to destroy that weird daydream. Maybe he is crazy. A headache starts to build behind his eyes. It pulses and thickens, like a swelling in his ears spreading outwards, and it's unlike any migraine he's ever had.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For the first time, he notices the sun has moved lower in the sky, and he squints through the trunks to see exactly how much time he has before sunset. He needs to get out of the woods.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As if reacting to his thoughts, the migraine accelerates into a stabbing pain in his forehead.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To: Baek</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>From: Jongdude</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Where the hell are you?</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Please come home</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun falls to his knees as the pressure in his head gets heavier, louder. He slams the map on a rock and smooths it out. Where is he? What's happening to him?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The map looks the same. Chanyeol’s writing is scrawled across the top. Each black line is exactly where it should be, detailing various hiking paths and bodies of water. According to this map, Baekhyun should be at the edge of the woods, if not past the road already.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The map is wrong.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A terrible voice in the back of his head whispers, </span>
  <em>
    <span>or maybe the forest is wrong.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He remembers taking an Ancient Cultures elective in high school, with Mrs. Kim, the elderly ex-lawyer who coughed like a corpse and gave out candy on Fridays. She was his favorite teacher once. Her voice, scratchy from age, reaches him now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"There were many words for this type of design," she said, pointing to a series of images projected on the board. "A labyrinth, a maze. But all good puzzles are a knot." She raised her brows and surveyed the class over circular glasses. "They change shape when you pull too hard."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun's hands are shaking. He shoves the map to the bottom of his bag. Maybe this forest is not a forest. Maybe it's a puzzle—a knot pulled too hard.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Those kids, he remembers. The ones who went missing in the 80’s. Their bodies were never found.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There might not be a way out of Niamh’s Wood.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The headache ebbs as quickly as it came on. With it, Baekhyun's immediate panic recedes. The sun is sinking below the trees, and the sky is streaked with orange and navy, but he wastes a precious moment taking deep breaths. Insects hum, and based on the smell of the breeze, there's water nearby.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe he can find the river and reorient himself. Maybe the forest isn't actually moving. Of course not. That would be insane, right?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's not like he has a choice—he must keep going, no matter how wrong these woods feel. No matter how dark it grows. He can't give up. Chanyeol needs him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun stands up. His knees shake, and the corners of his eyes burn from holding back frustrated tears, but he adjusts his pack and starts walking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At the crest of the hill, the trees taper away, and just ahead he sees the horizon open onto a beautiful, shimmering lake. Pines surround the edges almost until their roots touch the waterline. Dirt fades too quickly into sand. The water is quiet and lapping. It’s the kind of place photographers would orgasm over, a place missionaries would dub holy, a place Baekhyun himself would like to dance in, if no one else was around, in a far different situation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A place of peace. At least he can rest and think.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sky is dark and creeping in from the east. For some reason, his phone says it's only 2:03pm. Baekhyun toes off his shoes and rests his aching feet in the first inch of cool water. If Chanyeol were here right now… if Chanyeol were here…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For some reason Baekhyun thinks of his mother’s funeral. That blank summer between sophomore year and junior year when the world stopped.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t remember it often—it’s one of those memories too sharp to touch, somehow worse than the moment he found her in bed, still, with a shaky </span>
  <em>
    <span>love you </span>
  </em>
  <span>written on a napkin still clenched in her hand—but Baekhyun thinks of it now. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I only wish I could comfort you all,” Auntie Siwoo said at the podium in church, wearing a plunging gray dress and too much eyeshadow. “By saying that my sister is in a better place. Regardless, at least her suffering is over. At least her pain is gone.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why wouldn’t she be in a better place?” Baekhyun mouthed to her later, in the front pew, while the priest concluded some drabble about forgiveness.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was the type of priest who turned toward spirituality because he liked the sound of his own voice booming through stained glass windows, and he fit splendidly with the pristine old building off of Main Street, grotesque in its grandeur. Baekhyun hated how everything smelled like flowers and the chemicals used to keep them alive after they’d been plucked. Even the priest smelled like lavender. Dried, splintering, husks of lavender. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Auntie Siwoo frowned and itched at her eye makeup with one long, manicured finger. She looked like a clown with claws, not that Baekhyun would say so, even though he felt like turning his heart into a grenade and wiping out this church, this town, this whole fucking world.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His palms were so sweaty for no reason. The pews weren’t even close to full, just scattered relatives and Jongdae, Chanyeol, and Yoora in the far corner, but eyes followed his every breath. It was the worst kind of torture for someone who just wanted to curl up in his bed and never speak again. Everything felt too sharp. Lights, colors, sounds. Even the scratch of his tie.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be silly,” Auntie Siwoo whispered. “You know why.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun shook his head. “No, I don’t. Tell me.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wasn’t the whole point of church to send everyone to a better place? Baekhyun didn’t go much as a kid, or at all, but he knew the basics. Probably. His mother, more than anyone else, deserved an afterlife without suffering. A happy place—a heaven. Baekhyun didn’t know if he believed in that, but he wanted it for her so badly, he suddenly felt gutted that he hadn’t thought about it before.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knew she was dying. He knew and he didn’t—do enough, say enough, </span>
  <em>
    <span>be</span>
  </em>
  <span> enough, because he didn’t think it would happen so soon.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Auntie Siwoo gave a short, sharp sigh. “People who deliberately break their </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa </span>
  </em>
  <span>are not saved. They are damned. Okay, Baekhyun?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You couldn’t have taken him to one service, Jae,” Auntie Siwoo muttered under her breath, eyes drifting to the framed photograph on the dais, and she crossed her arms. “I told you, you stubborn asshole.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then she started to cry. Huge, genuine, sobs that made Baekhyun recoil into the backboard. Even the priest stumbled before continuing to drawl. It was, for some reason, the most shameful part of this situation, and Baekhyun risked a glance backwards to make sure his friends hadn’t noticed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongdae was seated with his head down, hands clasped together—he was quite religious, underneath that devil-may-care attitude—and Yoora was nowhere to be seen, but Chanyeol was there with overly-gelled hair and a black button-up. He looked right at Baekhyun and gave a tiny smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t an </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything is okay </span>
  </em>
  <span>smile. Baekhyun had seen those all morning, from his great aunt and the altar boys and the old lady from the bakeshop who donated carrot-walnut muffins. It was an </span>
  <em>
    <span>it’s not okay but I’m here</span>
  </em>
  <span> smile. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun felt that support like a physical lifeline around his waist, like hands reaching over to adjust his posture and smooth his jacket. He smiled back. It probably looked twisted and wrong on his face, but he tried.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck it. He knew his mom was okay, wherever she was. He needed to know that, and so he did.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Byun Baekhyun swallowed his pride and anger. He boxed up his resentment for one hour and put his arm around Auntie Siwoo, who clutched his hand like she would slip right off the pew and through layers of the Earth if she let go.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>There were no words to describe how awful it was, how little he thought of that church in the months after. But Baekhyun remembers it now, standing on the beach of a picturesque lake as the sun sets against his back, because he smells flowers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Specifically, lavender.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The memory dissipates into ripples like a stone dropped in water. Confused, Baekhyun turns over one shoulder, looking for the distinctive purple flower at the forest’s edge.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead he sees a fox.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A stark white fox, with tufts of fur on her ears and a long, bushy tail. Her yellow eyes are boring into Baekhyun from the bushes and he feels a tingle of fear whip up his spine. She’s such an otherworldly creature, something made of legend and whimsy, that he blinks several times before deciding that she’s real. She must be real, right?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” Baekhyun whispers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The fox opens her jaw and reveals rows of glistening white teeth. Then she screams—the deep, low voice of a human in pain, a man, so familiar and sudden that Baekhyun startles back and slips on the wet sand. He goes down hard and lands on his ass with a splash.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Floundering, Baekhyun panics. The flowers. They can’t float away, or get wet, he doesn’t know how finicky the herbs are. He stumbles to his feet and reaches for the dripping backpack pocket—until he catches a glimpse of white and freezes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His reflection in the water is different. Wrong.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His brown hair has faded to… silver? White? More like an absence of color than anything else. Baekhyun touches his cheek where the thin red scar gashes across it. Above his fingers, his eyes are demonic and fully white. No pupils, only an endless oval.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s just a trick of the woods, Baekhyun thinks. Not real, not real...</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He blinks and waits for the reflection to change. It doesn’t. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Suddenly the fox screams again, closer this time, her paws in the water as she advances through the shallows toward Baekhyun. Spooked, he shuffles deeper into the lake, until the water reaches his knees. It’s freezing and painful. He lifts his palms in the universal symbol of surrender. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay, fox,” he says again. If only Jongdae were here to fox-wrestle or whatever he does at the sanctuary all day. Baekhyun licks his lips. “Hey, we’re friends here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Go home, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the fox hisses, except its jaw never moves and foxes can’t speak.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun has a very, very bad feeling.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Go away,” he whispers. “Go away, go away, you’re not real.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun’s thoughts flicker like streetlights passing in a fast car. He can’t remember who he was thinking about ten seconds ago, Jong-someone, because in his head, the image of his own whitewashed face is superimposed over this white fox, who looks hell-bent on eating him for dinner. Before the fox, he was doing something important… he was checking on something…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>flowers. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He can’t turn away from the fox or she will pounce—he knows this instinctually, in some predator part of his brain—so Baekhyun shucks off the bag and tosses it past the fox to shore. She hisses, an awful guttural throat noise, and pursues him deeper.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he hisses, taking another step back. “What do you want? What do you want from me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The fox pounces. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun forgets his own reflection. He forgets the flowers, again, and the time, again, and everything beyond this lake. She sails claws-out towards his face. He shouts and falls backward, water rushing over his head, and in one dark second he’s completely submerged.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>IN DREAMS HE REMEMBERS— </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol reaches over to steal a fry from the takeout bag between Baekhyun's legs, but his eyes never leave the empty road. "Hey, can you call Yixing and tell him we're almost through the gates?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun throws a fry at the side of Chanyeol's head in retaliation. "Sure."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They're crammed in Yoora's car, flying down the highway towards the nature reserve, with shitty pop music blasting on the radio. A creak from the backseat preludes the cooler tipping over. Baekhyun spends a hectic five minutes with the phone crushed between his ear and shoulder, scooping ice and beers back into their box.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Collapsing into the shotgun seat, he tosses his phone on the center console and adjusts the glass clover hanging from the mirror. He'd given it to Chanyeol last year, right after Yoora's death. Baekhyun found it in a dollar store, but the way Chanyeol treated it, you'd think the clover was blessed by Saint Patrick himself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Are they already inside?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Yeah." Baekhyun shoves a handful of fries into his mouth. "Yixing's setting up the tent now."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol snickers and turns onto a dirt road. "Wish I could see that."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Better him than me."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"The campground is great, I promise."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"How many times have you been there?" Baekhyun scrunches up the empty bag and shoves it into the cupholder, where his discarded gum wrapper already sits sadly at the bottom. "You make it sound like this place is your backyard."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol's hands tighten on the wheel. "Only once or twice."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The song switches to something guitar-heavy and emo. Baekhyun cranks up the volume and forgets to be suspicious of Chanyeol's obvious lie, because this is his jam and he hasn't felt this weightless in months. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sticks his head out the side window as they approach the park gates. Wind feels luxurious in his newly-dyed hair, pushing the brown mop off his forehead, and the afternoon sun is a perfect temperature of warm but not hot. School's out for summer—their last summer. High school is finally over.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun sings along to screamo rock as they pass through the entrance and thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>this is what I've always wanted.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Friendship and freedom.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Though looking at Chanyeol, elbow hanging out the window and head bobbing along to the guitar riffs, he's not so sure about the friendship part.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Byun Baekhyun might be getting greedy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The car rolls to a stop in front of the park ranger's office. A stoutly woman with gray hair takes their entrance fee and directs them to the campground. Down a road bracketed by trees, shaded under a hundred thousand leaves, Chanyeol drives.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He points to a scarred and dying oak. "Shit, do you see that? I bet it's exo beetles."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Who what?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You know, the invasive species migrating from down south. Rising temperatures are sending them up here and disturbing the trees.” He frowns a little. “Um, they did a news piece on it last year. Huge coverage. Can’t believe you missed it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun cranes his neck around for a final look at the tree. It's almost entirely black and decayed. "Yeah, uh, no one pays attention to beetle species except you."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"And all of Channel 2."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Well how should I know? I still don't have a TV."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol makes a disgusted noise and turns into a parking field where trailers and SUVs dominate the dirt. "Jongdae would know what I'm talking about."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I regret the day I ever introduced you two." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol parks in the shadow of a massive gray trailer, where the smell of barbeque smoke and pine is already strong. He winks. "Jealous much?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well, he's not </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Baekhyun rolls his eyes and jumps out of the car.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Stretching his arms above his head, he enjoys twittering birdsongs and shouts from families playing in the trees. The park is more crowded than he expected—locals were probably enticed by the same promotional deal that caught Chanyeol's attention—and it might be difficult to find their friends in this maze of a campground.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol loads up with the hiking bag and firewood on his back. He's still skinny, even after years of basketball, but his shoulders are broadening to the point where Baekhyun catches himself staring. In envy or lust, he doesn't really know. Either way, it's infuriating. It makes him self-conscious in a multitude of ways.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shoulders hunched, Baekhyun trails behind wheeling the cooler and their bag of rations. Marshmallows, peanut butter, beef jerky…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol turns over one shoulder as they cross the road. "Hey, can you toss me some trail mix?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Jesus fuck—</span>
  <em>
    <span>Chanyeol there's a car turn around</span>
  </em>
  <span>—"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol steps back just in time to miss a green Jeep barrel down the road where he was walking, sending clouds of dirt in its wake. Hair blown back from the wind, he places a hand over his heart.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Oops."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"That guy can suck a dick." Baekhyun readjusts his white-knuckled grip on the cooler. “You got lucky.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"One of these days, I'm gonna walk off a cliff and actually die."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol sighs and hitches the bag of firewood higher on his shoulder. With his face half-outlined by the sun, checking both directions with squinted eyes before crossing, he looks at once fragile and eternal. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'll pull you back," Baekhyun says. "If I'm feeling generous that day."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Nah." Chanyeol swats the elbow away and kicks Baekhyun's ankles. "I'll drag you down with me, we can die together."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun laughs, but there's an edge to his amusement. He won't be dying anytime soon. The hiking trail opens before them, brightly-lit underneath thin branches, and they walk adjacent to it as they search for Jongdae and Yixing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He's considered the possibility—what happens if he never breaks his </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Will he never die? With each passing year, Baekhyun becomes less and less sure he's capable of losing his own name. His birth certificate is triple-copied and hidden in safety deposit boxes around the house. He's never gone by a nickname, not once.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hopefully that's a problem for a future day. He doesn't want to break his </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span>, not now at least.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol disturbs his thoughts with an exaggerated sigh. He stretches out his arms and wiggles all ten fingers, as if coaxing the forest in for a hug. “It’s so beautiful here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” Baekhyun agrees, even though he </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>agree. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The city proper, small as it is, makes sense. It feels safe and organized and cozy, all traits that the forest disregards. Chanyeol belongs here in this pulse and chaos. Baekhyun belongs secure between wood and plaster, comforted by his tame lifestyle, living out his wildest fantasies with the birds in the eaves and passing white butterflies.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he’d never tell Chanyeol that, who loves every tiny ant or sparrow like they’re part of his own soul, and feels claustrophobic even on their high school campus.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol points to a cleared patch of field under a gnarled oak tree. There, sprawled in the generous sunlight, with a baseball cap over his eyes, Yixing sleeps. The closest campers are a decent walk backwards, and they're too quiet now to wake him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Should've known." Chanyeol dumps the firewood in a corner of the field. "Yixing, you lazy asshole."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Mmm—oh, you're here already." Yixing stretches and moves the hat to his head. A gentle sunburn already lights up his cheeks and his eyes are half-lidded, almost like he'd started on the beers poking from his pack. "How was the drive?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Good," Baekhyun says at the same time Chanyeol says, "Boring."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol claps his hands together. "But the party begins now!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Where's Jongdae?" Baekhyun shades his eyes and scans the nearby trees. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They picked an ideal spot—the only downside is, they're far from the beginning of the trail, and here the firepits are horrifically dusty and almost unusable. Baekhyun doesn't notice Jongdae crouched behind the firepit, scooping away twigs, until he raises one soot-black hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Present," he shouts, springing up with stains on his shorts and dirt on his face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kim Jongdae is the type to volunteer for the dirty job simply for the joy of getting dirty. He loves a good stand-up comedian and has chronic insomnia, but there’s no one in the world more likely to fall asleep on Baekhyun’s backpack during Ancient Cultures class. He’s the type to punch first, kiss first, jump first, and consider the consequences much later. In that regard, he’s like Chanyeol.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s also one of Baekhyun’s favorite people in the world, so he gets tackled into a hug.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Great!” Chanyeol waves them both closer. “Let’s toast.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun laughs and releases Jongdae from his octopus arms. "Already! It's only—" He checks his watch. "2 PM!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They gather around Yixing's pack. This is the first time they've taken a trip together, the four of them, though Baekhyun and Chanyeol have done long weekend drives together several times, and there's a charged energy leftover from graduation last week.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yixing and Chanyeol immediately start squabbling over which brand of beer to open first—Chanyeol is advocating for straight to soju—while Jongdae tries to comb back his frizzy curls. He only smears dirt further across his face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Discreetly Baekhyun wipes his friend's cheek and Jongdae melts a little into his shoulder. They cuddle like that, too affectionate for two boys post-puberty, but who gives a fuck? Baekhyun certainly doesn't. He needs a good side hug every once in a while. Especially from Jongdae.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Alright, alright, break it up." Suddenly Chanyeol is there wiggling his arm between them. "Take your beers."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Sir yes sir." Jongdae fake-salutes and accepts a can. He wiggles his eyebrows. "What are we toasting? Good ol' Hollow High School, may she rest in peace?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Hell no." Yixing cracks open his beer. "To us."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"To our future," Baekhyun adds.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol lifts his beer. "To our weekend getaway." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They drink. It's not Baekhyun's first beer, but it might as well be, considering he's had alcohol... maybe twice before? At unmemorable house parties. Fizzing makes it difficult to swallow and the taste is unspectacular, but somehow Yixing finishes his entire can in one long tug. Chanyeol cheers obnoxiously.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That sets the tone for the rest of the evening.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun sits down with the instructions for the tent while Chanyeol valiantly sticks poles together without listening to a word of advice. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'll read you the instructions."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Wow, </span>
  <em>
    <span>thanks</span>
  </em>
  <span>. What a generous offer." Chanyeol unzips the back and dumps a dozen plastic poles on the ground. “Don’t worry, I can do the heavy lifting myself. No need to help. I got it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"First step..." Baekhyun turns the page and ignores him. “Identify Poles A1-4.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think this one goes here.” Chanyeol starts haphazardly stacking poles together and shoving plastic pieces into random holes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The tent-building process is a perfect metaphor for their personalities, and though it takes nearly an hour between the jokes and the sidetracked sips of beer and the arguments over instruction pamphlets, they succeed. Then they set up Yixing and Jongdae’s tent. That goes much quicker and Baekhyun sits in the center of the campground to admire their handiwork. Two gorgeous tents.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>People pass by every once in a while on their way through the campground and Yixing makes it a game of hiding the contraband alcohol every time someone appears among the trees. Sunset comes too quick. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Let's roast marshmallows." Jongdae tosses another chunk of wood in the firepit.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the lopsided orange light, his eyebrows cast odd shadows over his face, and he looks almost like a stranger. The gentle singing of crickets reaches a crescendo. What might be an owl </span>
  <em>
    <span>hoots </span>
  </em>
  <span>somewhere deep in the trees. As the night descends, so does an atmosphere of whispers and excitement. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Or, in Baekhyun’s case, apprehension.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everyone forgot chairs, somehow, so Baekhyun curls his arms tighter around his knees and discreetly slides closer to Chanyeol on the towel they share. He’s never been in the woods at night before. No other camping groups are close enough to see, so their space feels marooned. Across the firepit, Yixing has his head tilted all the way back for stargazing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I like marshmallows.” Baekhyun reaches over Chanyeol’s lap for the bag and tosses it to Jongdae. “Hey, can we open the soju too?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Duh.” Chanyeol has an open bottle in his hands within seconds. “Okay, let’s play a game.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That can mean nothing good. Baekhyun spears his marshmallow and hangs it close to the flame while Jongdae, seduced by the mention of a game, shouts suggestions in a too-loud voice that effectively pushes back the intimidating forest. Baekhyun takes a deep breath and shoves the golden marshmallow into his mouth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, we have to do truth or dare.” Jongdae splays out a hand like a waiter presenting a meal. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Obviously</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Fucking look at us.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well—” Chanyeol steals a glance at Baekhyun. “I dunno—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you scared? We won’t make you go in the big bad woods, Chanyeollie.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something about Jongdae’s voice, usually nasally and sweet, sounds different. Lower. Baekhyun sits up straight. He knows the look in Jongdae’s eyes, the way he represses his smile and how he flicks his curls. He’s teasing. When he glances at Yixing to check if he’s laughing, too, Baekhyun narrows his eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongdae is up to something.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay! We don’t have to play,” Baekhyun says, overly cheerful, but his voice is drowned out by Chanyeol’s predictable protests.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not scared! It’s a dumb game, but I’ll play it for you, Kim.” Chanyeol sets his bottle on the dirt with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>thump</span>
  </em>
  <span> and adjusts to sit cross-legged, accidentally dragging a corner of the towel over Baekhyun’s thighs. He doesn’t notice, too busy pointing at Jongdae. “Truth or dare?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongdae raises a bottle to his lips and takes a victorious swig. “Dare.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol moves his accusatory finger to the bottle. “Finish that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They dissolve into howls of delighted laughter. Yixing slaps Chanyeol on the back and takes a video of Jongdae squirming under the weight of a sky-tipped soju bottle. Laughter like this, Baekhyun wants to snatch out of the air and keep in a glass jar. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Luxuriously, he falls back on the towel, edging closer toward drunk with each round. Or maybe he’s already there, it’s hard to tell. Silhouettes of trees in the background already look otherworldly and demonic; Baekhyun might be a paranoid drunk.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Or maybe he’s a silly drunk. He does keep laughing. They spill mundane secrets of past crushes and hot teachers, cheated-on tests and embarrassing old social media posts, reminiscing on their glory days. All the while Baekhyun laughs and drinks, laughs and drinks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As Jongdae nears the end of his second soju, he wipes his shiny mouth with one hand and raises his eyebrows. “Baekhyun, your turn again. Truth or dare?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun runs his tongue over the back of his teeth. Everything tastes awful, but he stopped minding half a bottle ago. The combination of low-sensory fear and high-sensory excitement has him feeling extra agreeable. He leans against Chanyeol’s shoulder.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dare.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I dare you to kiss Chanyeol.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun laughs. It’s not the appropriate response, and he knows immediately by the way Chanyeol goes tight and stiff as a wall beside him, but he can’t help that his first thought is </span>
  <em>
    <span>hahahaha yeah right fuck my life</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The universe wouldn’t be so cruel. He’s thought about it before, dozens of times if he’s being honest, and it was never like this. In the woods with a crowd.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But apparently Jongdae’s serious. Crickets hush and the four friends are plunged into a thick silence punctuated by a crackling fire, through which Baekhyun stutters a laugh and a sideways glance at Chanyeol.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol, who is looking back at him, skin softened by the firelight and a smile hiding in his lips. He raises both eyebrows, which normally makes him look like a psychotic kid raiding the cookie jar, but tonight, under the moon and under the influence, he looks rugged. Addictive.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There are some sins best executed at night, and Park Chanyeol looks like he knows every single one of them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well we’re friends.” Chanyeol shrugs, not taking his eyes off Baekhyun. “It’s not a big deal.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I guess,” Baekhyun says.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay. So—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol kisses him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s nothing extraordinary, mostly because it’s over in a split second. Baekhyun doesn’t have a chance to refocus his eyes before Jongdae is clapping and Chanyeol is turning away to pour himself a shot, eyes stubbornly on the ground in front of him, even as Baekhyun forgets to breathe or move or </span>
  <em>
    <span>exist.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Chanyeol just kissed him. Like it was nothing. Like they do it all the time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yixing stabs a marshmallow—his thirteenth—and shakes his head. “That barely counts.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It counts.” Chanyeol takes his shot. “Kim Jongdae, truth or dare.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His ears aren’t even red. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Truth.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol sighs. “Dammit. Uh…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun interrupts. “What’s your </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The funny thing is, Baekhyun isn’t spontaneous. But he doesn’t know where that question comes from. He isn’t thinking beyond static and shock from the kiss, and the words just fill his mouth like sweet water from some inner fountain, overflowing to spit past his lips.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s the forbidden question. Jongdae freezes with both hands outstretched over the fire, warming his palms, and he looks at Baekhyun with a mixture of betrayal and vulnerability. His cheeks are ruddy from the alcohol.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Of course Jongdae won’t tell. It’s almost blasphemy to share your </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span>, even with a spouse or a family member, and he’s a chronic rule-follower. Kids their age are starting to break the stigma, but even then it’s rare and scandalous and un-Jongdae-like.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The atmosphere has completely sobered. Jongdae pulls his hands in and crosses his arms. He doesn’t look mad, not really, but he is serious when he says, “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours, too. Just swear to secrecy.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun releases a long breath. Apparently his best friend is still capable of surprising him. “Okay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’re really doing this?” Yixing’s voice climbs up an octave.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol says nothing. He just shakes his head and trades the soju for a flask of water. Around them, the night seems to appropriately lean in, and the silhouettes that felt like a backdrop now thicken and compress the group until the rest of the world ceases to exist. They’re alone and unholy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll go first.” Jongdae’s throat bobs. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Never eat before your child does</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The words sink around them like a veil, and Baekhyun in retrospect will think of this night as </span>
  <em>
    <span>before </span>
  </em>
  <span>and everything else as </span>
  <em>
    <span>after</span>
  </em>
  <span>, for many reasons. Jongdae’s words are a relief to hear. His </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa </span>
  </em>
  <span>is specific and inapplicable until he’s older and has a child of his own—for now he’s safe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wow,” Baekhyun says. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It seems to be the right word because Jongdae huffs a laugh. “Yeah.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yixing claps him on the back. “You better be a damn good dad.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I will,” Jongdae whines. “Of course, who do you think I am!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mine is easy, too,” Yixing confesses, and in true Yixing fashion, he tosses it out there with a casual flick of his bangs. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Sleep only in your own home</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But you napped earlier.” Chanyeol sets down his flask of water. “Under the tree. And like, every day in choral. We literally </span>
  <em>
    <span>met </span>
  </em>
  <span>while you were sleeping.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s the real secret. For my first birthday, my parents arranged to lease me the city of Niamh’s Hollow. So—unofficially—I own the land. No one knows except old mayor Jeon. His grandkids will inherit the land when I’m gone, but for now, everywhere is my home.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Wow</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Baekhyun says again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If only Auntie Siwoo knew that the family’s cultural claim on Niamh’s Hollow—a flimsy assertion at best, with no supporting documents—was legally trumped by Mr. Zhang’s money eighteen years ago. He can imagine the lemon twist of her mouth, and he almost laughs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongdae shakes his head. “What a sweet set-up. Only you, Zhang Yixing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And so it becomes Baekhyun’s turn to share.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Secrets are funny, fickle creatures. Sometimes they make the wearer feel powerful. Baekhyun has only one secret, same as anyone else in town, the words whispered above his cradle the day of his birth, and it’s only ever made him feel lonely. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But deep in the woods, holding his friends’ secrets like jewels beside his own, Baekhyun doesn’t feel lonely. This is the antithesis of lonely. Half of his brain is still reeling from Chanyeol’s thoughtless kiss. He feels trusted, trustworthy. Successful and drunk.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So Baekhyun clears his throat and says, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t lose your name, Byun Baekhyun</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a pause while everyone thinks. Or, in Chanyeol’s case, snorts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“What’s so funny?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nothing!” Chanyeol’s eyes stretch wide. He knows he screwed up immediately by the way he slides a hand onto Baekhyun’s knee. His skin is warm against Baekhyun’s goosebumps. “Just, it doesn’t really mean anything. You can’t lose your name, right? So how could you break that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I mean, you could.” Jongdae takes a sip of soju. He’s still trucking on, hair becoming frizzier with each bottle but eyes steady. “If you forget whatever’s on your birth certificate. Don’t start going by a nickname.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t take someone else’s last name, if you get married,” Yixing adds.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun shakes his head. Subtly he readjusts so that Chanyeol’s hand slips off his knee. Immediately he’s colder, but he doesn’t regret it, he’s trying to think. “No, it’s—okay. I don’t need help figuring it out. I just…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Might not die until I’m very, very old with dementia. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Life could be worse. He can’t complain.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m glad we did this,” he admits. “Maybe the </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa </span>
  </em>
  <span>shouldn’t be so secret. We could help each other, if we knew.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongdae is shaking his head before the sentence is fully finished. “I don’t want anyone else to know and screw me over. You three, my future wife. That’s it.” He pulls his knees to his chest as if feeling suddenly vulnerable, a post-partum regret after giving away his biggest secret. “Go ahead, Park. What’s yours?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol drains the flask of water and screws on the cap. “I can’t tell you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come on, we all did it.” Jongdae frowns.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry. I just can’t.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun knows Chanyeol better than anyone—they’ve grown up together, through years of awful haircuts and days they played hookey to skip stones at the river, side-by-side at driver’s ed and prom and two world-ending funerals. They’re practically two halves of the same whole. Chanyeol is his family.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And yet, the expression on Chanyeol’s face right now is mysterious. His eyes are blank and his hands fidget rhythmically with the flask, turning it over and over in one hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Seriously?” Yixing asks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Seriously.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun snatches the flask from Chanyeol’s hand and replaces it with his own half-empty bottle of soju. “Fine. Keep your secrets, Park Chanyeol. But take a shot as penance.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Two shots!” Jongdae slaps his hand on the towel. “For your insolence!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol’s face relaxes. He complies with directions and the game changes to Paranoia, then to arm-wrestling, then to a sing-off that Jongdae decimates.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The party wraps up around 2am. Yixing dozes on the lip of the firepit, either oblivious to the soot on his arms or unfazed, and the air has grown so chilly he shivers in his sleep. High above, the moon makes long shadows out of swaying leaves. Jongdae shuffles half-asleep to the other tent, idly calling out goodnights and goodbyes. His voice has quieted, thinned by darkness and exhaustion. Empty soju bottles are stacked beside the tree.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Baekhyun isn’t tired. He’s hanging onto the edge of tipsy and watching wind craft swirling patterns out of the dirt. Chanyeol challenges him to a silent game of thumb war, hanging above their pressed-together knees, which Baekhyun promptly loses. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you wanna head inside?” Chanyeol tilts his head in the direction of their tent.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t look tired, either, but there’s really no alternative. Baekhyun nods and they pick themselves off the towel, brushing away dirt and an errant spider. His heart is unusually fast. Could be blamed on alcohol or fear or Chanyeol—or, most likely, all three. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They blunder into the tent. Baekhyun swings his phone flashlight forward and accidentally catches Chanyeol in the face with the beam. His cheeks are pink from soju, his lips pinker. He’s never looked so… within reach. Baekhyun wants a repeat of their kiss. But longer. Deeper.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Would Chanyeol be good at it? He’s kissed two girls and one boy—Baekhyun knows because they tell each other everything—so he’s more experienced than Baekhyun and his awkward fumbling with his Chemistry partner, Minghao. Jeez, that had been awful. Wet and shocking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oops. Baekhyun realizes he’s been pointing the flashlight at Chanyeol’s blinking face and staring. He swallows and looks deliberately away, at his own sleeping bag, suddenly self-conscious.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tonight was lit. I’m glad we did this.” Chanyeol shucks off his shirt and flops belly-first onto a sleeping bag. “I’m not tired, though. Wanna keep playing?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun shimmies out of his jeans and lays down. “Which game?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I dunno. It’s hard to play truth or dare in a tent.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well we can’t do Paranoia or Mafia with two people.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure we can.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun giggles. “What—how?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The world outside their tent has disappeared. It’s quiet aside from gentle, distant snoring, so when Chanyeol rolls over, the crinkling fabric is startling. They lay face-to-face, heads pillowed on their arms, so close that Baekhyun can count his best friends’ eyelashes. So close he can admire his perfect skin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fine,” Chanyeol whispers. “Truth or dare.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun blinks and tries not to stare at Chanyeol’s lips. Dim blue light from the flashlight outlines his mouth. It’s so inappropriate, and crossing so many boundaries, but he wants—he just </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span>, anything, everything, after one little experimental kiss. He can’t stop thinking about more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dare.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I dare you…” Chanyeol blinks. His eyes lower, lower… then stop on Baekhyun’s mouth. Heat floods the space between them. Chanyeol wants him </span>
  <em>
    <span>back</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and the certainty of that sends a lightning thrill up Baekhyun’s spine. “I dare you to...”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun kisses him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh, fuck, he thinks, because this is good, this is great, this is so much better than the earlier peck. Chanyeol is warm and soft. Baekhyun slides a hand across the sleeping bags to grab Chanyeol’s waist and tug him closer, so they’re pressed together, legs tangling as they angle deeper.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His body is unfamiliar in the most exciting way—they kiss and kiss. Separate and come back together, again and again. Breathlessly. Chanyeol makes low noises that shoot like lightning through Baekhyun’s entire body.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He tastes like blueberry soju. He tilts sideways and rolls Baekhyun into his lap without breaking the kiss, and somehow this is even better, and Baekhyun doesn’t feel like a fumbling kid. He chases what feels good. Hands on Chanyeol’s jaw, his waist, his neck with a pounding pulse. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They move together in the night until, eventually, the excitement slows. They trade intimate, clumsy kisses. Baekhyun has the fuzzy though that he’d kill to keep this, he’d do anything to have Chanyeol grab him and never let go.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eventually they stop altogether, but they don’t speak. They grin at each other like lovestruck idiots. Chanyeol’s never looked so exhilarated, but they snicker and laugh under the sleeping bags until they fall asleep side-by-side, and Baekhyun doesn’t dream.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dawn arrives with a slippery fog that trails like powder amongst the treetops and makes Baekhyun’s face sticky when he climbs out of the tent, groggy and already slapping a hand over Jongdae’s motormouth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Jongdae mumbles indignantly behind his palm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Too early.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was just saying, we should get started on the bacon now so we can be the first ones at the falls today.” Jongdae steps away to poke a stick into the firepit. “I bet it’s gonna be crowded.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Baekhyun isn’t thinking about the planned hike to the waterfall. A chilly breeze sweeps over the campground, rustling the tents and sending a cascade of leaves and dust over their slippered feet, right as Chanyeol emerges from the tent flap, morning-bright and smiling.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun’s heart </span>
  <em>
    <span>thump-thumps</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He remembers everything they did last night. They’re like electric memories, shocking him everytime he pictures soft lips or warm skin and remembering anew that </span>
  <em>
    <span>he made out with Chanyeol</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Many times. Many filthy ways. Many minutes, until they fell asleep beside each other.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They meet eyes and Baekhyun looks away quickly under the pretense of stretching. He can’t handle it if Chanyeol ignores him or treats him differently. In the stark light of morning, who knows what nighttime adventures he’ll deny?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Morning.” Chanyeol yawns and scratches his wild hair. “I can do the coffee. Baekhyun should do the bacon—haha, get it?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun flips open the cooler to check their water supply. “Hilarious.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He relaxes as the morning progresses without incident. Yixing emerges to offer his fancy Italian moka pot for coffee, which Baekhyun wrangles espresso shots out of, and they settle into a makeshift circle on sticky towels to eat breakfast while the sun climbs over the trees. Everything smells fresh and content, like the forest is as happy as they are.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun might even call it their most peaceful moment in the woods—until, once again, Jongdae screams.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s already late!” He shoves his feet into a pair of muddy blue Crocs. “Let’s go, let’s go, the waterfalls wait for no man.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Leftover bacon crumbs are tossed in the firepit. Final doses of espresso are taken—Chanyeol’s with a sad whine—and cups are stacked neatly in the cooler. The campsite looks less tornado-stricken when they’re finished with breakfast, but Baekhyun has the fleeting fear that a bear will rumble by, and he hops back to double-check the tent.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol follows. “Oh, hey—are we good in here, no crumbs?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’re good.” Baekhyun tries to shuffle past Chanyeol without touching him, but the tent feels like it’s shrunk. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol catches his arm as he passes. Electric. Baekhyun freezes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’re good?” Chanyeol repeats with feeling.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We had fun. Doesn’t have to mean anything… right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Baekhyun studies a gnat swirling in the corner of the tent. If he looks up he’ll blurt out every smothered desire from the past year and scare Chanyeol far, far away. “For sure. We’re good.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Last night was fun. He wants it to happen again. The situation is more complicated than that—they’re best friends, they’re in the preamble of college, Baekhyun is too afraid to go for what he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span>—but for now, that’s enough. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun pulls his arm away from Chanyeol’s and hip-checks him hard into the side of the tent. Chanyeol in all his gangly glory falls on his ass. He chases Baekhyun out of the tent, shouting and indignant, and by the time they catch up to Jongdae and Yixing at the mouth of the trail, they’re both laughing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The waterfalls at the nature reserve are popular for good reason. Forty-five minutes of vigorous walking through trees and up short cliffs will deposit visitors at the sands of a lagoon over which three waterfalls cascade. The tallest point is only fifteen feet above the lagoon and a popular perch from which to jump, although the hike itself is steep and short.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Families are already splashing in green shallows and posing for pictures in front of the falls, but Baekhyun toes the edge of a rock and looks down at the water.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His reflection is semi-sweaty and familiar. Looking at himself becomes a game where Baekhyun only notices other people—his mother’s little nose, a cross necklace from Jondgae slung around his neck, shadows under his eyes thanks to Chanyeol keeping him awake late. He’s only a collection of the people he loves.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun blinks at himself. And he’s okay with that, he thinks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Race you to the top!” Jongdae drops the picnic basket beside Baekhyun and charges for the cliffside. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eagerly Chanyeol bolts after him, nearly slipping on the mud at the base of the climb, and an elderly onlooker gasps underneath her purple umbrella. They arrived thirty seconds ago and they’re already causing heart attacks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You think we’ll catch an amoeba in this water?” Yixing squints over his retro sunglasses at the lagoon. His Hawaiian shirt is falling off one shoulder so that he effortlessly looks model-rugged and sweet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I hope so.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yixing smiles. “I don’t really know what an amoeba is, but I want one.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think it means group diarrhea.” Baekhyun toes off his sandals and starts the trek to the top.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Delicious.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yum.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Halfway to the falls, Baekhyun stops to catch his breath and Yixing almost crashes into his back. They separate, over-apologizing and slapping each other’s chests, and the breeze carries a sweet smell of lavender. When he turns, he sees it—the woods spread out like a painting behind them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun blinks. “Wow.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s really beautiful.” Yixing removes his sunglasses for a better look. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mid-morning sun has burned away all the fog. They’re hardly above the trees, but through gaps the forest is visible for miles, dipping into valleys and rising again with proud hills. Even further, snow-capped mountains gleam. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Baekhyun says, feeling himself shiver without reason.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yixing passes him up on the climb. “Come on, almost there. Jongdae’s gonna hate us for slowing him down.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When they reach the top, Jongdae and Chanyeol are indeed squabbling over who gets to jump first. They’re in the middle of a heated game of rock-paper-scissors at the edge of the stream. Two kids splashing in the falls below look up, catch sight of them, and watch with barely-concealed derision. Discreetly Baekhyun herds their antics out of view.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol loses and slaps a hand to his forehead. “No! Not like this!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ha.” Jongdae jabs a finger back towards the trees. “Back of the line, Park.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fine. That’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why does it matter who goes first?” Baekhyun mutters to Yixing, who laughs, while Jongdae shouts a warning at the kids below to get out of the way—cannon incoming.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Watching Jongdae launch himself off the side of a cliff is transfixing. He gets a little running start, arms pumping, before he leaps without hesitation directly into the streaming falls. His shout echoes through the entire forest. A flock of nearby sparrows takes off in fright. The splash he makes disturbs a tanning blonde girl, who glares up at their group with laser-like eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Without warning, Yixing throws himself over next, silent and graceful as a bird, and lands only feet from Jongdae’s delighted backstroke.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Suddenly it’s only Baekhyun and Chanyeol at the edge of the river. The falls are roaring, but over that, Baekhyun can still hear his heartbeat in his ears. He doesn’t look at Chanyeol’s veiny arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t look at his side profile, strong jaw, eyes glazed and staring at some faraway distraction…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun follows his gaze and sees nothing but trees. “Chanyeol? You can go next.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What—oh, no it’s fine. Go ahead.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What were you looking at?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol smiles, but it’s not aimed at Baekhyun. He seems to be smiling to thin air or to his own thoughts. “It’s nothing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can tell you’re nervous. It’s okay, </span>
  <em>
    <span>those</span>
  </em>
  <span> two dumbasses were fine. I bet the water can handle one more.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then he peers over the side of the falls, assures that no one can see them, and gently slaps Baekhyun’s ass. Not in a teasing, bro-ish way like they’ve done in the past. This one has squeeze.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol’s immediate and face-destroying blush ruins the act. He clears his throat and smiles far too earnestly. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun feels the imprint of that hand on him. He studies the awkward, embarrassed-but-pleased flush to his best friends’ cheeks, and he can’t decide what’s worse: the pining of Before or the tyranny of After. Chanyeol is playing a game he’s already won—he’s got Baekhyun hook, line, sinker, forever. And he doesn’t even know.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun laughs a little hysterically, pinches Chanyeol in the nipple, then pulls him down into a </span>
  <em>
    <span>real </span>
  </em>
  <span>kiss. Whatever the fuck they’re doing, he’s all in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“For luck,” he says.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun turns and jumps into the waterfall.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>IN DREAMS HE IS REMEMBERED.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h4>
  <span>CHAPTER 3</span>
</h4><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And shouldn’t we recall that keen</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>pheromonal terror, when dawn</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>arrives too bright, too soon?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>—Erin Belieu, With Birds.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun floats.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The lake in the middle of the woods is cold and impossibly dark. For a moment, the water cradles him in absolute silence and the universe settles into a peaceful numbness. He relaxes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he opens his eyes, the water is so green it’s nearly black, and he can feel reverberations from something big far beneath his dangling feet, like a disturbance on the lake floor shifting the sand. However many miles down that may be. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The last time Baekhyun went swimming was years ago—maybe two?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He relaxes. He floats. He… remembers.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol throws a housewarming for his new apartment, shared with his new classmate in the engineering department at their local vocational school, Oh Se-something, where the back lot has a tiny over-chlorinated pool. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“These tiles are </span>
  <em>
    <span>sick</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Baekhyun does a little run and slides across the white kitchen floor, nearly crashing into the counter and knocking down Sehun’s state-of-the-art electric kettle. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He runs a hand along stainless steel counters. Condensation from the inside heating unit trickles down the window, where Baekhyun pauses to draw a smiley face before turning back to the couch. Everything in the apartment is small and shiny and modern, so befitting for Chanyeol in his rumpled Tommy Hilfiger hoodie. He’s always looked first class. Now he kinda lives that way, too.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know, man.” Chanyeol looks up from furiously texting, both feet splayed on the ottoman like he owns the place. Well, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “It’s so sexy.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not the word I would use, but sure.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, so Yixing just cancelled.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?” Baekhyun bounces onto the couch next to him. The cushions are unfairly plump and comfortable. “Why?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“His sister’s going into labor. He had to turn the car around halfway here—shit, that’s another hour back to the city, that sucks.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The door opposite the kitchen opens. From the darkness a tall, angular guy strolls forward, spares a wave for their languid couch bodies, and disappears again into the bathroom. He wears a floor-length purple robe that gets caught in the bottom of the door when he closes it, but the fabric disappears after a yank. The thick smell of honeysuckle follows him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun blinks. “I’m guessing that was Sehun.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yeah. I’m glad you guys got to meet.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Should Baekhyun feel jealous of his best friend’s new best friend? The guy Chanyeol chose to be his roommate only after Baekhyun made it clear he would never leave his childhood home? They guy Chanyeol vents about when he gets back from class and finds a mountain of dishes in the sink?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No, Baekhyun shouldn’t be jealous. He’s got no reason to be—and he</span>
  <em>
    <span> isn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>, particularly, but Baekhyun has always harbored a low-level jealousy for </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone</span>
  </em>
  <span> who so much as talks to Chanyeol.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a problem. Good thing he’s gotten really good at hiding it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun smiles. “A man of few words, but he does seem nice.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol nods, oblivious and lovely. “Totally.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun checks his phone for the time. It’s still early, just after 2pm, but snow has been falling quietly all morning. On his walk to the apartment earlier, between checking directions every five ten steps, he lost himself in the clouds. Today they’re stunning. They seem endless and omniscient, three-dimensional at times and flat gray when no one is looking. They’re fear-mongering clouds, his mother might’ve said. Just looking to scare.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He isn’t frightened of clouds or snow, but his mood is certainly affected. The weather looks depressing enough to push him into Chanyeol’s side, cuddling close like the heater isn’t on full blast. He slides a hand under Chanyeol’s hoodie, seeking comfort, where the skin above his ribs is warm and inviting. Chanyeol drapes an arm around his shoulders to tickle his hip. This is allowed, because no one else is watching. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So it’s just us today.” Baekhyun tugs a loose thread from Chanyeol’s hoodie and squirms away from his flirting fingers. “Jongdae has work, right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Damn, I really wanted them to meet Sehun before my birthday party.” He sighs and tosses the phone on the ottoman beside his feet. “Well, what do you wanna do?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wait!” Chanyeol’s hand comes down to slap Baekhyun’s shoulder. His eyes light up. “Don’t answer that. I have a great idea.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He scrambles off the couch, taking all warmth and comfort with him. Baekhyun must make a face—he can’t stop himself from pouting—because Chanyeol pauses to pinch his cheek obnoxiously before crossing to the back door.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Snow-doused grass stretches around a circular garden outside. In the middle there’s a square green pool and a squarer, greener Jacuzzi with wooden edges. It looks like a discount water park, but it’s probably half the reason Chanyeol chose this apartment complex. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That, and it’s equidistant from Baekhyun’s house and the fire department where Chanyeol plans to work after getting his degree. But pointing that out, coincidence or not, would make Chanyeol close up like a flower. He’s gotten more sensitive since their camping trip six months ago and the adventures thereafter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun never pushes. He’ll take what he can get.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now Chanyeol points to the Jacuzzi. “That water is heated. I bet it feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>great </span>
  </em>
  <span>today.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You want to go </span>
  <em>
    <span>swimming</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the </span>
  <em>
    <span>snow</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Look at that beauty. Tell me you don’t want her.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun pretends to squint out the door. His breath fogs up the glass. “I don’t want her.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m putting my suit on.” Chanyeol announces. “You can borrow my old one.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am not catching hypothermia for you, Park Chanyeol—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Five minutes later, Baekhyun shivers when the glass door slides open and a wind the temperature of Antarctica collides with his bare chest. Chanyeol bolts across the snow barefoot, making little </span>
  <em>
    <span>ahh ahh </span>
  </em>
  <span>noises as if his feet are on fire, and for some unimaginable reason Baekhyun’s head goes straight to his dick as he imagines those sounds in a completely different context. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t have to imagine too hard. He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>heard</span>
  </em>
  <span> those sounds, a dozen times since that night in the woods, since Chanyeol is loud and flirtatious and always, always ready to touch. They’ve become… something habitual and energetic. A release of tension. A craving for intimacy. A second secret.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Whatever they are, Chanyeol initiates and Baekhyun finishes. Every time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Thinking about the situation makes Baekhyun embarrassingly aroused when he sprints across the snow to plummet in the steaming Jacuzzi.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Luxurious, hot, aquamarine water sloshes over Baekhyun’s waist. A full-body sigh takes over his chest and he slides neck-deep into the heavenly heat, letting his feet float freely in the middle area.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god, so fucking worth it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re welcome.” Chanyeol winks. “Kinda the best apartment ever.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Eh, it’s alright.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Together they monopolize the tiny hot tub. Snowflakes fall on the surface with little hisses of steam and Chanyeol catches them with delighted hands. He lifts an arm and whips it around like he’s controlling the steam, and he looks so ridiculous and young, damp hair falling in his eyes, that Baekhyun laughs and splashes him in the face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Of course that starts a fight. They wrestle. Baekhyun is spitting out chlorine and wiping his eyes when he finally gasps, “Okay okay! Shit, I’m drowning—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol freezes. They’re half-tangled together, Baekhyun straddling Chanyeol’s lap, water running down the side of his face. Fluorescent blue light casts oval shapes on their skin that move with the whirlpool water. Big hands settle on Baekhyun’s waist.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is what he wants, what he thought about all morning. Baekhyun arranges himself more comfortably on Chanyeol’s thighs and wraps an arm around his shoulders. Their warm, wet skin slides together. He traces a droplet down Chanyeol’s neck with one finger and the atmosphere sinks into tension and heat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol’s eyes are half-lidded as he watches Baekhyun touch him. “Feels nice.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Inappropriate for the hot tub,” Baekhyun murmurs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“False. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Very</span>
  </em>
  <span> appropriate.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun grins and slides his hands back, away from that mesmerizing skin. “The entire apartment complex can see us right now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s kinda sexy, don’t stop.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sehun can see us.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol shakes his head. The tips of his hair drag through the water and stick against his ears. Baekhyun runs a hand up Chanyeol’s bare chest—which grows thicker with muscle every day, to his equal chagrin and delight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He’s in the shower, trust me, he won’t be out for an hour.” Chanyeol shivers under the touch. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If you say so,” Baekhyun says, and kisses him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is the most publicly compromising position Baekhyun has ever been in and he doesn’t care. Snowfall continues around them, fluttering faster through the gray sky and coating their shoulders and hair. He doesn’t care. He presses Chanyeol against the concrete edge. His knees ache from pushing against the step, but he angles closer anyway, one hand moving up to tangle in Chanyeol’s cold damp hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The threat of voyeurism makes Chanyeol extra responsive. He arches his neck and wraps both arms tight around Baekhyun’s waist, tugging him so close they’re practically one, warm water splashing over their elbows, as he smiles into the kiss.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun breaks the kiss for air, but doesn’t move. He’s comfortable. “Why are you smiling?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nothing!” Chanyeol smiles even wider. His teeth glitter blue in the chlorine-filtered light. “It’s just—this is so—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun kisses gently down his jaw, to his neck, lower, stopping where the waterline meets Chanyeol’s nipple. His goal is to distract. He’s not entirely successful—he distracts himself alright, but Chanyeol only sighs and reigns in the smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This is nice,” he says simply, sweeping both hands down Baekhyun’s back rhythmically, dipping lower each time. “I’m glad we can do this without making things weird.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Stop talking.” Baekhyun starts sucking on his neck at the junction of his collarbone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Luckily, Chanyeol takes the hint. One hand hand wraps around Baekhyun’s thigh and settles him more firmly in Chanyeol’s lap, causing just the right angle of friction against his dick. His first moan is unexpected and quiet. When they move together more deliberately, another breathless sigh breaks past his lips, trailing up Chanyeol’s neck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He takes Chanyeol apart slowly, enjoying the hitches in his breath, the way his body melts and his attention hyper-focuses on the body in his lap. Sometimes Chanyeol gets like that in bed—mute, shakey, adoring, adored. It’s not what Baekhyun ever expected, back when he allowed himself to daydream about this, but he loves it. He loves getting to pin Chanyeol down and make him relax.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They kiss for what feels like eternity, until Baekhyun’s hips are twitching with purpose and Chanyeol is making helpless noises against his throat where his face is buried, clutching the back of Baekhyun’s neck like an anchor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay.” Baekhyun pulls back and tries to breathe. “We should… we should stop.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh-huh.” Chanyeol tilts his neck back and accidentally slams his head against the edge of the jacuzzi. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ow, shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>—or we could go inside.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still straddling Chanyeol’s lap, Baekhyun adjusts and takes stock of his dick. Status: Very interested. “Yeah, sure.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol eyes the back door to his apartment. It’s at least a fifteen second sprint through the snow, which has started sticking to the pavement. He swallows, and Baekhyun is distracted by the movement of his tempting throat, so he doesn’t see the spark in his eyes until it’s too late.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Race you?” Chanyeol smiles, mischievous and fond and made of everything Baekhyun’s ever wanted.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“On three,” Baekhyun whispers. “One, two…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He jumps off Chanyeol’s lap and splashes eagerly out of the water, hissing at the icy breeze, unaware of the wave sent crashing over Chanyeol’s shoulders from his momentum. Baekhyun slides through the door on wobbly, goosebumped knees, laughing, with Chanyeol hot in pursuit and already indignant.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If he could’ve crystallized that moment forever, he would’ve.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>When Baekhyun resurfaces in the cursed forest of his present, the trees are upside-down.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s short of breath. Somehow the lake had pushed him into its yawning middle, a good stretch away from the shore. Tippy-tops of trees begin at the sand and flourish upwards and outwards. Trunks dissolve into roots dissolve into a flat darkness. Shadows have eaten the sky. There is only water, earth, and tree.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The lake itself reflects pitch black, and Baekhyun gasps when his hands disappear under the water and come back dripping a thick, inky mud. He can hardly see except for a line of silver along the shore, like the sand itself is infused with moonlight, shedding a dim glow on the horrific scene.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun accidentally swallows a mouthful of water. It tastes metallic, like he’d just sucked a papercut on his thumb, and he spits viciously. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This can’t be real, he thinks. This must be a dream.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He swims as fast as he can. The water thickens as he approaches the beach and Baekhyun’s lungs burn until he pulls himself out with shaking arms. A sense of wrongness presses like weight against his eyelids. He’s forced to turn away from the trees, where their tallest branches brush the dirt, and cough feebly towards the shallows. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Where is he? How did he get here?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hello?” He calls cautiously. “Anyone there? I need help.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What is this hellish place? Baekhyun pushes dripping hair from his face. Think, think. He’s in a forest. He’s looking for something—for someone—that he hid in his backpack…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His backpack! Baekhyun whips around, scouring the shore for his things. He knows he brought a backpack. He doesn’t remember coming to this forest, or to this lake, but he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>there are flowers in the back pocket that he needs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For Chanyeol.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Chanyeol,” he gasps, and the name ignites like a spark in his chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun is here to save Chanyeol. He almost forgot. He spots the bag, crumpled and wet, under high-hanging branches, and grabs it. The yellow fan-flowers are there and unharmed. He sags to his knees, hands overflowing with yellow petals, exhausted with apprehension and relief. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was such an idiot to come here. Wherever here is—he doesn’t remember, names and places and memories are falling into the lake of his mind like spiralling bits of glass, reflecting light for a moment before winking away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun doesn’t remember what’s outside this nightmare world. He can hear the trees whispering and they sound hungry. They want his memories, his love, his </span>
  <em>
    <span>name</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Trust us, </span>
  </em>
  <span>they coo. Hot mouths open along hundreds of trunks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We just want to bring you home. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” he whispers. “You can’t take me. I know where I’m going.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s a lie! </span>
  </em>
  <span>They scream. Pine needles like teeth erupt from their hollow mouths.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They’re right. Baekhyun rips open his backpack. Maybe there’s something useful here—some trail mix, an empty flask of water, or—he snatches a frayed paper from the bottom. A map. He flips it to the blank side, finds a pen, and starts writing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My name is Byun Baekhyun. I need to get home to find Park Chanyeol. He’s my best friend and he’s hurt. This medicine will save him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then he remembers his </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My name is Byun Baekhyun,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he writes again. As if having it twice will make him remember. He can’t lose his name. He can’t begin dying before he saves Chanyeol. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clutching the map, Baekhyun starts walking among the treetops. Fog wraps around the branches and glows with a faint white luminescence, showing a clear path over the fallen pine needles, and his own breath fans out in a cloud of white light. Above him, the sky disappears into a tangle of dark roots.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The forest might be beautiful—if it weren’t eating his memories.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun takes a step. The path ahead is clearer and wider. “My name is Byun Baekhyun.” He takes another step. “I am looking for Park Chanyeol. I have…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stops.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have </span>
  <em>
    <span>something </span>
  </em>
  <span>for him. It’s important.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He continues walking. Each step is faster and faster until he’s running, stifled tears burning at the corners of his eyes, branches whipping his shoulders. A shape flits across the path and Baekhyun trips. He lands hard on his elbows. The map slips from his fingers and blows into the trees.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A white tarantula is tip-toeing over a rock towards him. It looks iced over, like frostbite has taken hold of its legs and snowball body, but no less ferocious. Baekhyun scrambles backward. Dry pine needles dig into his palms like nails. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Nearly there, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the spider coos, in a feminine voice that sounds distantly familiar. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Keep dreaming, baby. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun stands up and searches the area. No, no, no—this can’t be happening. He needs an escape. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All the broadness of his thoughts, the fleeting music he gets stuck in his head and weird one-sided conversations he has, all the mini movies like discs within reach—they narrow. Baekhyun feels his humanity trickling away with his memories. It’s a mind-bending sensation that tickles in inside places he can’t reach. He’s becoming part of this otherworldly forest, less body and more spirit. More animal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A pale face with white eyes flashes across his memory, but it’s unfamiliar. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What does he look like? What is his own face?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun reaches up to touch his cheek and realizes the map is gone. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The map is gone. </span>
  </em>
  <span>How did he get here? It doesn’t matter. But </span>
  <em>
    <span>where is he going</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Who is—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My name is Byun Baekhyun,” he says to the tip-toeing spider. “I’m looking for Park Chanyeol.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s going to lose the names, too. He can feel it. Baekhyun knows down to his bones that he can’t lose the names. He’s already forgotten everything else.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A gust of wind sends the leaves into a loud rustling. The spider advances slowly. Baekhyun fishes a pen from his bag and makes his final move—he writes </span>
  <em>
    <span>BBH + PCY</span>
  </em>
  <span> across his wrist in sprawling, bold blue ink.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then he turns from the spider and runs into the heart of the woods.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h4>
  <span>CHAPTER 4</span>
</h4><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I took a little journey into the unknown</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>And I come back changed, I can feel it in my bones</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>I fucked with the forces that our eyes can’t see</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Now the darkness got a hold on me</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Holy darkness got a hold on me</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <span>-Meet Me In the Woods, Lord Huron</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>From: Kyungsoooooo</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>To: Jongin</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t be late again chief will take ur head</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On a sleepy Sunday afternoon, Kim Jongin accidentally slams the door of his police cruiser too hard.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nasty neighbor Jenkins peers over her bushes to glare through the tinted windows. A flock of sparrows are startled out of Jongin’s half-wilted peach tree. He winces and pulls out of the driveway as fast as he can. He’ll probably get an irate call from his sister later for waking the baby.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin drives exactly the speed limit. He isn’t hungry because he ate one serving of oatmeal and two bananas for breakfast. On the road, he plays quiet talk radio and misses a text from his coworker because he actually silenced his phone before getting behind the wheel.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is the type of person Kim Jongin is—better known as the most boring man in Niamh’s Hollow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s turning onto Ash Avenue when his life changes for good.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What Jongin notices first is a sad yellow CLOSED sign over his favorite Italian restaurant. What a shame, he thinks, remembering fondly their beef lasagna. It’s his sister’s favorite. Then Jongin’s eyes slide further, along the weird empty space between that building and the next, where something stirs in the shadows.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A man. Off-balance, probably drunk. Maybe homeless. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin hasn’t technically clocked in yet, but the chief can’t be mad at his tardiness if he’s bringing someone in, right? This guy might need help. He might also need to be fined for public indecency. Quickly, Jongin wings into the empty parking lot and gets out of the car.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good afternoon, sir,” he calls. “Anything I can help you with?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The man is crumpled on the ground where sidewalk turns to asphalt. A semi-hidden basketball court rises in the background, overgrown with weeds and dusty vines, a relic forgotten by the townspeople years ago. At the sound of Jongin’s voice, the man lifts his head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin freezes three steps away. He knows that face. He remembers it vaguely from high school gym class, yes, but more importantly every officer in their precinct knows </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>face—cute nose, scattered moles, square smile. This is Byun Baekhyun.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Except he looks nothing like the photo on the missing posters.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun tries to stand, but his knees wobble. He looks like he spent three days in a washing machine, tumbling head over heels and getting bleached, because his hair is white and his skin is colorless and unhealthy. His plain shirt is loose and damp. According to the reports filed last week, which Jongin had been briefed on, this man has been missing for seven days. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” Baekhyun props himself on the wall of the Italian restaurant. “Please help me. I’m looking for…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>We’re</span>
  </em>
  <span> looking for </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, actually.” Jongin steps forward to offer his arm as support. There’s a coffee stain on the sleeve of his uniform that he discreetly wipes at. “Please come with me. Your family submitted a missing persons report last week. They’ll be so happy to find you okay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun frowns. His eyes are unfocused and staring somewhere beyond Jongin, over the tops of trees across the street. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” he whispers, then promptly slips down the side of the wall.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“On second thought.” Jongin catches him with a grunt. “Let’s go to the hospital first.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin helps Baekhyun walk slowly to the cruiser and settle comfortably into the passenger seat. His shoulders are hunched together and he’s acting very strange—blinking too long, opening his mouth and not speaking, and fumbling with the seatbelt like he forgot how to wear one.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Um, sir.” Jongin places both hands on the wheel. “Are you on drugs?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun looks at him and blinks. “No. I don’t think so.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Those are two very different answers, Jongin thinks. He puts the car in drive and pulls away from the parking lot. Only then does he notice the Volvo newly parked across the lot. An older woman is staring at the cruiser as it drives away. People and their social-media mouths, honestly. The news of an odd white-haired man will be all over Facebook by tonight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well, this is turning out to be an exciting morning. Jongin straightens subconsciously in his seat when he realizes Byun Baekhyun is sitting in </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>car, alive and mostly well. He found the missing person—the first real closed case of his career, and it’s one of the town’s infamous missing persons reports.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s practically smiling when they turn into St Anthony’s. Baekhyun is quiet the entire ride, but Jongin gently touches his shoulder when they stop on the ground floor of the parking garage. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, you’re gonna be okay.” Jongin smiles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a strange smell coming from Baekhyun’s clothes. Rain—but stronger, muddier, like a a lake post-storm. It’s not a bad smell, but it’s out of place in the police cruiser after a week of sunny days.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun looks at him. There’s an emptiness in his face. “Do you know me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” Jongin raises his eyebrows. “Oh, you might not remember, sorry—we went to high school together, I’m Kim Jongin. I was a year below you. I’ll help you check in and tell your family you’re here, don’t worry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Awkwardness aside, he’s speaking in his best Distressed Bystander voice, because Jongin was trained for stressful situations and he’s one of the best officers in a crisis. Not because his reflexes are astounding, or he’s a quick thinker—Jongin is just sweet. People calm in his presence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Except Baekhyun just frowns a little and looks away. He doesn’t seem to be registering the situation well. Drugs or shock—or both—are certainly involved. For the first time, Jongin feels a serious chill of worry settle in his abdomen. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Let’s go ahead and get you checked out.” Jongin steps from the car and helps Baekhyun do the same. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A pair of nurses in baby blue scrubs walk past chatting amicably about the morning shift. A cool breeze cuts through Jongin’s uniform and raises goosebumps along his arms as they walk, slowly, to the double glass doors printed with EMERGENCY in red letters. Baekhyun wobbles and Jongin grabs his arm to balance him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They’re barely through the door, Baekhyun clutching Jongin’s elbow for support, before the man behind the desk is out of his spinning chair. Thank god for the intra-community support between public servants.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hi, officer.” The secretary hands over a clipboard and paperwork. “What’s the situation?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This man needs immediate medical attention.” Jongin trades Baekhyun’s arm for the paperwork. “I’m going to step outside and alert the precinct and his family, but please let me know if you need anything.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun stares at the secretary—an older man with graying stubble and bony hands—and shakes his head. The overhead lights flicker. Although the waiting room is otherwise empty, the sound of a gentle, whistling wind begins.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not supposed to be here. I need to…” Baekhyun clears his throat. He lets go of the secretary’s elbow and stands straight. “I need to find…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He traces a finger over his wrist. There are dark blue markings on the skin. Gently Jongin takes his wrist and reads </span>
  <em>
    <span>BBH x PCY</span>
  </em>
  <span>, barely legible, like a child doodling the initials of their crush in a notebook, which he didn’t notice before. Something’s definitely not adding up here. He exchanges a glance with the secretary, who looks equally as concerned.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’ll help you find what you’re looking for.” Jongin slides out his phone and snaps a photo of Baekhyun’s wrists. “I’ll be right in to check on you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, officer.” The secretary leads Baekhyun past a spare wheelchair and towards an open hallway. “If you’ll follow me this way, sir. What was your name again?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin is out the door before he hears Baekhyun’s reply.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before anything else, he needs to call the chief. Jongin hurries back to his cruiser and locks himself inside, double-checking the windows to make sure no one can overhear. Locating Baekhyun isn’t top secret news, but it will be breaking news in no time, and the entire town can’t be banging down the hospital doors before Jongin figures out what smells fishy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He dials the precinct. He alerts the chief of Baekhyun’s location and strange behavior. While he’s talking, a tall nurse in pink scrubs rounds the corner and leans against the wall two spots down from Jongin’s car, hiding in the shadows of the parking garage and lighting a cigarette. He’s pretty and sharp. Exactly Jongin’s type. It’s funny, he keeps glancing around with shifty eyes, as if waiting for coworkers to jump out and lecture him—but he keeps smoking furtively, head down and shoulders defeated.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin’s never had an addiction before, unless fried foods count, but something about the nurse’s expression feels familiar. The boy looks young and long-suffering. Jongin can sympathize. He wants to step out of the car and offer a word of compassion, but he’s got a case to finish.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Comforting healthcare professionals isn’t really part of his job. Even if they’re model-tall with nice lips.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin copies the contact information for Baekhyun’s emergency contact, someone named Park Chanyeol, and the man who submitted the missing persons report, someone named Oh Sehun. The first number rings and rings with no answer. He dials the second.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Funny enough, the nurse stubs out the cigarette and answers his own phone at the same time. “Hello?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good afternoon, is this Mr. Oh Sehun?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, who’s calling?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My name is Kim Jongin with Niamh’s Hollow police force. I’m calling with news about the missing persons report submitted for Byun Baekhyun.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did you find him?” The nurse’s lips shape the same words.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” Jongin unlocks his car. “Actually, um. Just a moment, please.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Holding the phone with one hand, Jongin shuts his door and waves toward the nurse. What a strange coincidence. Sehun doesn’t notice until the third awkward wave, then does a double take. His angular brows twitch upwards.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hi, that’s me.” Jongin says redundantly into the phone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun puts the pieces together quickly and hangs up the call. “Is Baekhyun alright? Is he inside? Tell me everything.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He crosses the space between them, graceful as a dancer, and flicks the cigarette butt into the gutter before nearly crowding Jongin against the door of his cruiser. A faint smell of honeysuckle comes off his scrubs. They’re so close the pulse in his neck is almost visible.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He’s okay—well, he was conscious when I brought him in.” Jongin gestures back to the EMERGENCY doors and discreetly slides away. He swallows hard. “You can probably see him right away, I mean, I’m guessing you’re a nurse?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” Sehun pivots. “Let’s go. Where did you find him?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m afraid I can’t release the details of an open case.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun pushes open the doors and waves off the attentive secretary. “I need to know. For medical reasons.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you the head nurse in charge of his stay? Sorry, it’s just, there’s protocol and I’m just not allowed to share—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before he can finish, Sehun disappears through a corner door labeled STAFF ONLY. It almost slams on Jongin’s nose. The emergency waiting room is empty except for Jongin, hovering in the corner, and the secretary, typing rigorously at his computer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sighs and drums his fingers on the counter. Nurses, he thinks. Always so professional.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The door reopens with a flourish. Sehun holds a clipboard tightly in one hand. “I’m in charge </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin suppresses a smile. “Lead the way.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They hurry down two clean hallways, through a tiny series of cubicles with graphs pinned to the walls, and stop at room 203, where the door is shut. Sehun knocks twice before opening the door. He turns back as if remembering too late that Jongin stands behind him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please wait out here. I’ll let you in for questioning as soon as his check-up is finished.” He points to the end of the hall, where a sad couch is befriending a potted fern. “Feel free to make yourself comfortable. And—Jongin—thank you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin shrugs. “Just doing my job.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The door shuts between them. Suddenly all the sounds of a mundane hospital morning rush in. Distant and regular beeping, birdsong through the window, and casual chatter from the coffee machine in the breakroom reach Jongin as he strolls to the couch.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As an officer of the law, he spends more time at St. Anthony’s than a civilian would, but he’s never seen nurse Sehun before. He sits and tries not to think about how pretty he is. That’s unprofessional, and Jongin is nothing if not—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shit. He needs to do reconnaissance of the pick-up scene within two hours. It won’t take long to investigate, but he doesn’t want to leave Sehun without a word of warning, so he rips a paper from his notepad and scrawls, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Police business be back in a minute pls call if needed </span>
  </em>
  <span>with his number at the bottom.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Perfectly professional. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin drives back to the parking lot where he spotted Baekhyun and starts poking around. He’s given up completely on stopping by the station to clock in. Chief knows where he is and that he’s working—he’ll just fill out the mistake paperwork later.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sun is afternoon-bright but doesn’t warm his skin against the spring chill, so he spares a moment to pull on gloves. VIVA ARBOL is still abandoned and silent. The laundromat next door is open but empty. He decides to question the owner.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A bell above the door chimes when Jongin enters. An elderly man in a navy sweater vest is reading a newspaper behind the counter. This place has an anachronistic feeling—like it was removed from an older time and dropped here with no editing. Gurgling washing machines are stacked in front of tacky wallpaper. Beyond the overpowering smell of Tide, there’s the smell of something savory, like curry.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Excuse me.” Jongin waves to the cashier and points to his own badge. “Hi, I’m with Niamh’s Hollow police, do you mind if I ask a few questions?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The cashier smiles and holds up a red backpack. “You lookin’ for this, kid?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Early this morning, while the cashier—a kind man named Mr. Ong—enjoyed a cup of joe, he spotted the bag abandoned in the corner of his tiny garden with no one in sight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“S’the damndest thing.” He slides a plate of muffins across the counter and gestures for Jongin to take one. “My garden’s got a fence, real tall one too. Who’d ever left it musta climbed over. Didn’t hear a thing. Got ears like a hawk and didn’t hear a thing at all.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Was anything missing from your yard, sir? Anything taken?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not that I could tell. Some of them azaleas were damaged, but no matter. They’ll be alright.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin flips his notebook closed. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Ong. I’ll take this bag right down to the precinct and see if it belongs to our missing persons.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He realizes his mistake too late. Mr. Ong’s wrinkled eyes swell with tears and he clutches the bag close to his chest. Three posters of Baekhyun’s face are pinned to the notice board with care.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t mean—” Mr. Ong sniffs. “That kid who’s up and gone, you think it’s his?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well forensics will have to do tests before we confirm, sir. All I can say is, um, this area is part of an open investigation. Please call us if you see anything else.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mr. Ong places a delicate hand over his heart and hands over the bag. “I will. And do let me know soon as the owner’s found. Couldn’t bear it to find the kid’s bag and not him. Been coming here for years, you know?” He points to the poster. “That kid there. Real sweet thing. Shame about his Ma.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin clicks out his pen. “His Ma, you say?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You wouldn’ta heard, it was years ago now. She broke her </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa </span>
  </em>
  <span>the day little Baekhyun was born. Lasted almost fifteen years to raise him. Strong woman.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin hesitates, because it’s rude to ask, but this feels relevant. “And what was her </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, it was real cruel, you just wouldn’t believe.” Mr. Ong leans across the counter and wets his lips. He smells strongly of the pervasive curry and his breath is warm against Jongin’s ear. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Never bear children</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The horror must be evident on Jongin’s face, because Mr. Ong nods somberly and hands him a muffin, as if pastries could rectify the situation. Surviving fifteen years after breaking a </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span>—deliberately, it sounds like—is unfathomable. Shouldn’t even be possible. It makes Baekhyun’s entire existence feel… wrong.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin’s pen hovers over his notebook for a second before he slides his things away. That won’t go on the official record yet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for your help, Mr. Ong.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Any leads so far, kid?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Um—” He recalls Baekhyun’s empty eyes. “None so far. We’ll keep looking.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do let me know, officer. S’a damn shame, if these disappearances happen again. Can’t let them trees get traction.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin slides the bag into a plastic sleeve labeled EVIDENCE and inches backward. Before he’s too far out of reach, he snags another muffin and says, “Uh—yes, hopefully we find him soon. Thanks again and have a nice day.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then he turns tail and hurries out of the laundromat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lying sucks. Especially to kind old men like Mr. Ong who just want to see their neighborhood safe. Jongin was this close to blurting out the details of an open investigation to a civilian, which could get him in major trouble, so he tosses the bag into the backseat and drives like a bat out of hell back to the hospital.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>From: Sehun</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>To: Jongdae</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>hey, police just brought baekhyun into st anthonys</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>he’s stable but you should come</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>something’s wrong</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The hallway is empty when Jongin returns, his note untouched and the door firmly shut. He sits on the couch and looks at the wilting plant. Check-ups don’t take long, right? He’s too awkward to knock on the door and potentially disturb the nurse’s work.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The chief should already be here, or at the very least Kyungsoo, to check up on the case, but they’re likely busy. That’s okay—Jongin trusts himself. He has the tools to start unpacking the bag now, so he exchanges his leather gloves for plastic ones and shuffles through its contents.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A phone, dead. Could be used to identify the bag’s owner. An empty flask that doesn’t smell of alcohol. Two empty bags of trail mix. A crushed handful of yellow flowers, semi-flattened by the flask but still sweetly aromatic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin brings the flowers to his face and inhales. They smell familiar… like roses, but stronger and less sweet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As he sniffs again, the door opens and Sehun emerges. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The nurse is pale. He sits beside Jongin and releases a long sigh, fingers twitching as if seeking the weight of a cigarette, only to immediately stand again and start pacing. His shoes squeak with every step. Back and forth, like a tide rioting on the beach, he disturbs the stillness of the hallway. Panic is palpable.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Without thinking, Jongin reaches out and holds Sehun’s arm. “How is he?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It works. His touch seems to ground Sehun, who stops and looks at Jongin properly. “His vitals are fine. Dehydrated, mostly.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Relief sweeps over Jongin. “Well, that’s great. Do you mind if I ask him some questions now?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You can’t.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh—um. Why not?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun sits on the couch and puts his head in his hands. “Because he has total amnesia.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin’s stomach turns. “What?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s definitely his bag.” Sehun turns his head to stare blankly at the haphazard items spread over Jongin’s plastic-wrapped lap. “I helped him pack that stuff after we brought Chanyeol in.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin slides the items back into an evidence bag and moves everything gently to the couch. Thinking fast, he stands and hurries to the door. “I still need a statement—maybe I can help jog his memory—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The door swings open to reveal an empty chair. The paper sheet is still wrinkled in the shape of Baekhyun’s thin body. Beyond that, the window hangs open to a bright afternoon sky tapering into a copse of trees leading to the nature preserve. Jongin freezes with his hand on the doorknob. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turns back to watch Sehun bring the flowers to his nose with an expression of total, inexplicable heartbreak. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin says, “He’s gone.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h4>
  <span>CHAPTER 5</span>
</h4><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Understand, I’ll slip quietly away from the noisy crowd when I see the pale stars rising, blooming over the oaks. I’ll pursue solitary pathways through the pale twilit meadows, with only this one dream: you come too.</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>—Rainer Maria Rilke</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>IN DREAMS HE REMEMBERS—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The moment you break your </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you start to die.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The priest grips the podium with white-knuckled hands and leans forward, eyes hungry over the parishioners, and a hint of lemon air freshener wafts over the first three rows. He purses his lips before continuing, as if these next words contain the singular secret to salvation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And so,” he says, voice booming against the stained glass windows. “To willingly break your </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa </span>
  </em>
  <span>is to commit suicide and surrender to sin. Obeying your </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa </span>
  </em>
  <span>is obeying His word. Listen to none others’ proclamations but His.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the back of the church, in the middle of a crowded pew, thirteen-year-old Park Chanyeol tries not to fall asleep. His feet are starting to sweat. Beyond nasty Mrs. Jenkins, the ancient space heater is sputtering away and filling the space with a cozy warmth that coaxes his eyes closed… but he snaps back to attention when Yoora discreetly slaps his chest. For the third time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ow,” he mouths, but she’s paying him no attention.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol slides further into his wooden prison chair and sighs. Dust motes float over from the space heater, where they’ve probably been floating for thousands of quiet winter Sunday mornings, trapped in circles and knowing only disbelief in the world outside these walls. Just like Chanyeol. His eyes slide to the window, where a snowy stretch of field beckons, and beyond that, the whispering trees.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But today the trees are not whispering.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He can hear an unusual ruckus in the woods. It sounds like a faraway drum, or a construction site just down the road, like the trees have morphed into power tools. A headache brews in response. Like this, Chanyeol can’t focus. Yoora won’t let him sleep. There’s only one thing to do.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol makes a split-second rash decision and whispers, “Excuse me, bathroom.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He squeezes past Mr. and Mr. K, ignores Yoora’s hiss of disapproval, and hurries down the aisle. As he escapes the crushing confines of the church, he feels like he can breathe again. It’s not that church specifically is boring. Everything that happens indoors is boring to Chanyeol.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He slips out a side door beside the restroom.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Misty clouds pass over the sun. Cold air scorches his throat, but he enjoys the aftertaste of freshness. The basketball court and lawn are covered in neat snowfall, disrupted only near the low stone wall separating the church grounds from the edge of the woods, where a smudged trail of deer tracks curve into the trees. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The earlier drumming noise has quieted.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> he shouldn’t—but he’s a defiant kid and he follows the tracks anyway. Yoora can scream at him later.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>An ancient elm stretches its arms down as he passes, skimming his hair with bare branches that tickle, and he waves back in welcome. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Good morning, Chanyeol</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the trees whisper. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Good to see you again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They send him images of himself smiling, feelings of warmth and growth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hi there,” he whispers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A blue butterfly, ridiculously out of season, flits around his face. Chanyeol almost trips over a log hidden in a snowbank. He weaves through the thickly-blanketed forest, admiring the skeletal trees for their kindness even in the dead of winter. They compliment him, they admire him, they speak to him as they always have, and Chanyeol glows under the attention.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We have something to show you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, a half-buried bush says. Tiny icicles shiver on its branches. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Show me.” Chanyeol squats to speak with the bush face-to-face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The forest complies. A white hare hops wildly across the path and Chanyeol leaps to follow it, stumbling through the snow. It feels good to run and stretch his legs. Trees encourage him in passing fragments—</span>
  <em>
    <span>yes right way</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
  <em>
    <span>little faster go there</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
  <em>
    <span>almost.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His breath a plume of excitement behind him, Chanyeol finally stops at the base of a huge banyan tree. He’s been here before. This is a tree out of place, meant for the tropics but somehow surviving—and thriving—in Niamh’s Wood, with a twisting snakepit of roots and a menagerie of insects living in its bumpy bark.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol presses a hand against its trunk. “What’s up?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead of words, he received a response in feeling only: a surge of heat and excitement that flows like a live wire from the trunk into his palm, up his arm and to his chest. It makes Chanyeol light-headed but happy. The banyan tree is like a puppy nipping at his heels, desperate for attention, thrilled just to be in his presence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s good to see you too,” he responds, thumbing over the bark like the tree can feel him. Maybe it can. This forest defies all other laws of nature, so maybe the trees have nerves—he’s never asked.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We brought you here for a reason</span>
  </em>
  <span>, an elm says behind him, and a chorus of humming agreements rise from the surrounding shrubbery. The drumming noise that initially distracted Chanyeol in the church returns quietly, slowly, sneaking up on him under the familiar whispers of the trees.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’s that noise?” He turns, but he doesn’t know what he’s looking for. The snowy forest is charming as usual. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A reason, </span>
  </em>
  <span>they repeat. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Time to start moving home. Chanyeol. Move home.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not this again. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am</span>
  </em>
  <span> home, I’m not leaving Niamh’s Hollow.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Now</span>
  </em>
  <span>— The drumming noise bellows suddenly louder, coming from back towards the church. Chanyeol crouches and covers his ears. “Stop!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Now, Chanyeol</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
  <em>
    <span>start moving home</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
  <em>
    <span>home</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His head aches. The forest is just trying to communicate with him, but Chanyeol is human and there’s a limit to how much tree-language he can handle at one time, and it feels like nails are drilling into his ears. Gritting his teeth, he backs away from the banyan tree and tries not to scream. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shhh,” he whispers desperately, scuffing snow as he stumbles back towards the church. “Okay, I’m listening, you don’t have to be so loud.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At the treeline he trips over a frosted root and goes down hard. As soon as his knees hit the snow, all noise stops. Serenity returns. The basketball court, the lawns, and the stone church spread out in front of him like a postcard, beautiful and still. Chanyeol sits in the snow and takes deep breaths. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A tiny drop of blood leaks from his left ear. Chanyeol wipes it away and glares at the closest tree, an oak. “Thanks a lot. You’re the ones who called me, no need to be rude.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The tree falls over.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sound is horrific, an enormous cracking and crashing that sends Chanyeol scrambling backwards and gasping. Snow sprays. He covers his face with one hand, cowering on the ground, and when the chaos settles he’s a meter away from the fallen branches. Any closer and he would’ve been crushed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Did he do that?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t mean it!” He crawls to the split trunk, hands shaking. “I—I’m sorry—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Chanyeol!” Yoora’s scream slices through the air. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>What have you done</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She must’ve sprinted across the lawn, because suddenly she’s grabbing at Chanyeol’s arm and hauling him away from the debris. The forest is quiet and aloof, showing no reaction for their peer who fell so abruptly, but Yoora surely heard the crash. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>scream</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol feels paralyzed. He can’t look away from the fractal shapes on the snow where branches lay. This tree was tall and proud only moments ago, but now its neck is horrendously snapped near the base. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m telling Mom and Dad.” Yoora stomps her foot. “You could’ve died. It almost fell on you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It didn’t,” he replies automatically. “The trees wouldn’t hurt me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes they would, stupid. They always hurt people.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No! They’re not dangerous, they’re friendly.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yoora shakes her head. Snowflakes are catching on her eyelashes, darker than usual after a newfound discovery of mascara, but she blinks them away in frustration. She looks like she might angry-cry. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can’t you just listen to Mom and Dad? Stop talking to the damn forest.” She wipes her face and kicks angrily at the felled tree. “They want to trick us, look what just happened.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol stands up and shoves her away from the tree. Kicking its carcass is so disrespectful and he can’t watch that happen. Even if Yoora is older, even if he adores her and is terrified of her in equal measure, he can’t sit idly by while this poor tree is disgraced. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How would you know?” He hisses. “You never listen. I know you can hear them, too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m gonna tell Mom you’re not allowed to come here anymore.” Yoora shoves him back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s bigger and stronger, so Chanyeol falls flat on his ass </span>
  <em>
    <span>again</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He takes a deep breath and doesn’t continue the childish shoving, because he’s thirteen and he can have adult arguments, dammit, so he stands up, brushes off his pants, and glares at his sister mutinously. If only she were never born. If only Chanyeol was an only child.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, right,” he mutters. “We have to come to church or Mom will have an aneurysm, </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yoora’s mouth twists. She crosses her arms, like she’s about to give up and storm off, when her angry, roaming eyes land on the basketball hoop. Chanyeol watches the idea take shape in her mind and opens his mouth to argue, but she beats him to it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>for sure</span>
  </em>
  <span> can’t play basketball here,” she announces. “Look, the tree almost fell on the court. No way it’s safe. Mom will say I’m right.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But where am I supposed to practice? I have to make the team!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I dunno.” Satisfied at her win, she turns over one shoulder and starts trudging back to where churchgoers are spilling out the doors. Some shoot curious looks at the Park siblings at the edge of the woods. In a high, smug voice, she adds, “Should’ve thought about that before you killed one of your friends.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Furious, Chanyeol sprints after his sister and tackles her into the snow belly-first. “I didn’t kill it!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes you did!” She screams, pummeling him with closed fists.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Stop lying all the time!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They roll through the snow as a shouting ball of limbs until Mrs. Kim, one of the church volunteers, screams at them to get the hell off God’s property and not to kill each other in front of Him. Yoora’s cheeks are ruddy and strands of her long hair are stuck to her lips, but she shoves Chanyeol one final time into the snow before running off, probably straight to VIVA ARBOL to tattle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol wallows. He didn’t kill the tree, did he? Why did the forest call him inside so urgently? There was nothing new to see, unless they wanted him to witness that death. He punches the snow. He’ll definitely lose access to the basketball court now—Yoora was right about that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Next summer Chanyeol will have to settle for the tiny, dirty little court behind the restaurant where no one hangs out. How lame. He picks himself up, ribs smarting in three different places from his sister’s well-placed hits, and begins the short walk home. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He spares a glance at the trees before he leaves. A gentle gust makes it look like they wave farewell. Figures, they’re satisfied. Chanyeol will never understand the forest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>IN DREAMS HE IS REMEMBERED.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol wakes up in a hospital bed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The room is painfully white on his sore, groggy eyes, and he must blink three times before a figure takes shape in his peripherals. Pastel pink scrubs. A glass of water that makes him nauseous to look at. Actually, maybe Chanyeol is just nauseous, and his limbs feel strangely tingly underneath the scratchy sheet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wiggles his fingers. Clears his throat. Tries to say, “Hey Sehun.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead he just coughs feebly, but Sehun whips around anyway. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re awake.” He rounds the side of the bed, blocking a portion of sunlight from the window and bringing relief. His scrubs are wrinkled like it’s the end of a double shift, but he smiles until his eyes curl into crescents. “How are you feeling?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oookay.” Chanyeol coughs again and sits up weakly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Any pain?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun helps him drink some water. The room is definitely St. Anthony’s. He’s visited enough times at the end of Sehun’s shifts to recognize the blue floor tiling and the view of Main through the window. How did he get here? The last thing he remembers is…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He grabs at his own chest. There were bites—stingers—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re okay.” Sehun sets down the glass and gingerly takes a seat on the cot. His hands move seamlessly over the machine beside Chanyeol, checking his vitals, adjusting the IV drip. “Do you remember what happened?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think so.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Great, because I’m gonna need an explanation.” Sehun pauses. A strange expression passes over his face, a sort of secret smile, before he continues. “We’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Baekhyun?” Chanyeol remembers their plans from earlier. “Oh god, I missed lunch. What time is it?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Chanyeol, you were in a coma for eight days.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The room tilts on its axis. A roiling wave of nausea threatens to purge itself out Chanyeol’s throat. He doesn’t realize he’s sliding sideways until Sehun catches him and settles him firmly against the pillows, neck straight and eyes too wide. He feels paralyzed. Eight days of his life, eight days of the world… gone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol tries to use his mouth. “What the hell. Are you serious?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Give me just a second.” Sehun fusses over the pillows. “I want you to tell me everything that happened, but I have to check your vitals first. Someone else needs to hear your statement, too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The situation is bad. Sehun won’t meet his eyes anymore. The full-body relief at seeing his roommate upon waking in a strange place is starting to be eclipsed by fear—Sehun is treating him very professionally, almost detached. Like a patient, not a friend. As he should, considering he’s probably the nurse in charge of Chanyeol’s care. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he knows Sehun well enough to know he’s also hiding something. There’s a bad taste in the back of his mouth. He tries to listen for the trees, to check if the forest is still angry, but the windows are tightly shut.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol takes deep breaths. The good news is, he really does feel fine. No pain. Some weakness, some grogginess. Discreetly he feels his own chest under the robe, but there’s no raised skin or bumps. Nothing to indicate that what happened in the forest was real—except his physical presence in the hospital.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>How is he going to lie his way out of this?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sorry, everyone, I just pissed off my sentient forest companion and it sent an army of albino pests after my heart and apparently knocked me out for eight days. That’s new, but I can’t promise it won’t happen again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol lays back against the pillows and sighs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To his surprise, Sehun returns with a police officer in tow. He’s young and floppy-haired, with dark pretty eyes and tan skin, and he’s already holding a notepad open to the third page. They both sit on plastic chairs beside Chanyeol’s bed. He tries to communicate </span>
  <em>
    <span>what the fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>to Sehun, but Sehun is busy making sultry eyes at the officer, who doesn’t notice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hi Mr. Park.” The officer extends a polite hand. “I’m Kim Jongin with the Niamh’s Hollow police force.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Am I in trouble?” Chanyeol smiles like he’s joking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The monitor starts beeping faster. He’s done his fair share of law-breaking. Only trespassing and drinking as a minor, if that even counts. A few memorable shoplifting experiments in his younger years. Okay, Chanyeol’s not exactly an angel. He hasn’t spoken directly to a police officer ever. They make him anxious.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin shakes his head. “Not at all. I just want you to describe the last things you remember. For our records.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It sounds peculiar, but Chanyeol can’t claim to know the exact difference between medical records and police records. Maybe this is only about his health. Sehun gives him a discreet nod, brows raised emphatically.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay.” Chanyeol settles more comfortably into the pillows. “So it’s not exactly illegal, but I went into Niamh’s Wood…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin starts writing neat and fast. “Why is that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was looking for something.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What were you looking for?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol laughs awkwardly. He doesn’t want to admit this in front of Sehun, who will laugh at him, or Jongin, who is a literal stranger. He casts his gaze to the window, where the sun is starting to set and wash the skyline in orange. The sky is remarkably clear and low, forested mountains are just visible beyond Main. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looks back and shrugs. “Is this an interrogation? Nothing important.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun rolls his eyes. “Just answer the questions, please.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol tries to stop himself from blushing when he admits, “Gold. There’s a river near the nature preserve where you can mine, if you’re patient. I’ve been going for a couple of weeks. I’m—” He mutters the last part quietly. “Making a birthday present for Baekhyun.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Normally Sehun would smirk and make a smartass comment. Normally he wouldn’t pass on the opportunity to tease Chanyeol for his hopeless devotion. But something is definitely, absolutely wrong, because he only pinches the skin between his eyebrows and exchanges a loaded glance with Jongin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol </span>
  <em>
    <span>loathes</span>
  </em>
  <span> not knowing what’s going on. He feels like a third wheel with his own roommate.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Actually, can you pass over my phone?” He locates his phone on the far counter beside the sink and points his chin at it. “I need to call my parents. They’re probably freaking out.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If you don’t mind, sir, could we finish this first?” Jongin smiles.  “You’ll be free to call your parents as soon as possible. What happened in Niamh’s Wood?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nothing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun sighs. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span> didn’t send you home with insect bites and scratches all over your chest. Please take this seriously, we’re trying to do our jobs.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chastised, Chanyeol lowers his head. From this angle he can see down the robe—sure enough, though his skin is smooth and healed, there’s a thin pink scar over his chest. The injuries were real. He can’t tell, sometimes, what’s real in the forest and what’s his own imagination playing tricks on him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It feels like the attack happened this morning, but eight whole days have passed. It’s unbelievable.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was attacked by an animal,” he admits, thinking fast. “I didn’t get a good look at it. One minute I was squatting in the shallows, next thing I know I’m bloody and running home. It’s embarrassing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin looks disturbed, but he schools his face into neutrality and copies down the account. He’s young for an officer, but has an admirable professionalism that makes him approachable, if dry. He reminds Chanyeol of every other uber-polite small-town guy who populates Niamh’s Hollow. Not worth his time right now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol is itching to leave this bed and grab his phone. He should call Baekhyun, too. Talking to Baekhyun will make him feel better, even if his best friend can’t know the truth, either. He stretches his arms above his head and wiggles his toes, gingerly testing his strength. Shit. The firehouse probably had to scramble around his surprise eight-day absence—Taemin must’ve pulled a double shift.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you remember getting home?” Jongin asks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Chanyeol sits up straight and looks at his roommate. “Sehun was there and... I passed out on the couch. Did I bleed on the cushions?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You did.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oops.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin turns a page in his notepad. “Tell me everything you remember about the animal.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Thinking about the all-white scorpions which had climbed his leg like a ladder, Chanyeol pulls a face. Leeches with fangs had fallen from the trees and burrowed under his shirt. He can’t describe the otherworldly, demonic animals the forest had used to frighten him or he’ll be put in a psych ward.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He didn’t even deserve the forest’s attack. He was just sitting on the riverbank, minding his own business, maybe complaining about how Baekhyun would never even know how hard he worked for the stupid gold flakes...</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol squints and pretends to mull things over. “Maybe teeth. Or claws. It all happened so fast, officer.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What about the note?” Sehun laces his fingers together in his lap.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What note?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun gives him a very flat look, but before he can make another acidic comment, Chanyeol swings his legs over the side of the bed. Suddenly there’s a flurry of activity. The monitor beeps erratically. Sehun tries to guide him back into the pillows with both palms, while Jongin’s chair legs screech attempting to back out of the way. Chanyeol ignores everyone and stands up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He holds out his arm. “Take out the IV.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Absolutely not, you just woke up and there are still tests—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I feel fine. Anything wrong with my vitals?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not that I can see at the moment, but the doctor will want to check.” Sehun’s shoulders slump. He sits on the edge of the bed and pats the spot next to him. “Look, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> leave yet.” He exchanges another tense look with Jongin. “There’s something we have to tell you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol knew it. Something’s not right. He grabs his phone before sitting beside Sehun, careful not to move too quickly and rip the IV, but of course it has no battery.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He tosses the useless phone onto his pillow. “What? Just spit it out.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun grips his shoulder with one hand. The professional distance he wore like armor earlier dissolves and he cuddles close to Chanyeol’s side, like they have a hundred times before on the couch, pressed together at the hip.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Baekhyun’s missing,” Sehun admits.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean… missing?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>missing. He went into Niamh’s Wood looking for an herb to heal you.” Sehun exchanges another loaded glance with the police officer. “But…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin interrupts. “I found him this afternoon. He has amnesia.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The impossible words float freely through Chanyeol’s mind. He can’t make them connect. Baekhyun went into the forest? Baekhyun has amnesia? He shakes his head and moves away from Sehun, whose face falls. Chanyeol doesn’t care. His brain feels sluggish.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is he okay? What kind of amnesia? Why the fuck would he go into Niamh’s Wood? Baekhyun would </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your note.” Sehun grips his wrist and doesn’t let go. His eyebrows are scrunched together and he repeats himself like Chanyeol is being idiotic. “Your note said the yellow fan flowers would bring you home, or something, and they did. That’s how I woke you up.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t write any note.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin started furiously scribbling in the notepad again. Biting his lower lip, he chimed in with, “Do you know what yellow fan flowers he’s talking about?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There are hundreds of flowers in Niamh’s Wood. A dozen meadows full to the sky of flowers every shape and color imaginable. Sometimes, when Chanyeol’s feeling particularly drunk on life, he asks the forest to make him a new meadow, and usually it’s happy to oblige. He has watched seeds sprout into full bloom, wilt, and wither in the palm of his hand within seconds. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol shakes his head. “No, I don’t—I can’t remember any fan flowers.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It was your handwriting, though.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Where is he now?” Chanyeol stands up again, this time touching the IV at his elbow and feeling the sting of the needle when he applies too much pressure. He feels caged. “I want to see him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun sighs. “He’s gone. He escaped the hospital and we don’t know where he went.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Probably home. Call Jongdae.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I already did. He was here earlier to visit you but he had work, he hasn’t answered.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We have a team out looking for Baekhyun right now.” Jongin clicks his pen closed. He tucks the notepad into a pocket and sits straighter, glancing at Sehun. “Look, foul play might be involved. I don’t want to include anyone who isn’t need-to-know. This Jongdae, is he someone I should be talking to?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The only foul play involved here is with Niamh’s Wood, but Chanyeol can’t explain that. He knows what must’ve happened: Baekhyun foolishly went questing into the woods after misunderstanding Chanyeol’s accident and did something to upset the forest. Maybe the trees had pushed him down a hill and he hit his head. Maybe they confused him and led him circles for hours until he went crazy with frustration. Any number of awful scenarios could’ve happened, but Chanyeol knows without a doubt who is at fault—the forest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He needs to talk to the trees.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol shrugs. “I’m telling you he probably went home to recover by himself. Jongdae would say the same thing, Baekhyun’s a homebody.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin and Sehun have an intense conversation held solely with eyebrows. One seems to be inquiring the other. Apparently they reach a conclusion because Sehun turns to Chanyeol and releases his wrist. The temperature in the room suddenly drops and a disant, faint howl echoes from outside. Even with the window closed he can hear it. Goosebumps rise on Chanyeol’s arms and he grips the edge of the bed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?” He looks between them. Something’s still very wrong. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>What</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t understand.” Sehun wets his lips. “Chanyeol, he has total amnesia.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Total amnesia,” he repeats. “So he wouldn’t… he doesn’t remember anything at all.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He doesn’t remember me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nothing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fear hits him like a bolt of lightning. Chanyeol releases a shuddery exhale as his throat closes. He has to work hard to get the next words out. “His… did he know his </span>
  <em>
    <span>name</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t lose your name, Byun Baekhyun. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The forest wouldn’t be so cruel into tricking Baekhyun to break his </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span>, would it? He couldn’t have lost his name. Chanyeol won’t accept it. If Baekhyun dies he will burn down every inch of that forest and beg for him back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun pulls his phone out of his scrubs pocket and starts scrolling. “He didn’t know anything.” He shows the phone to Chanyeol. “But he had this written on his wrists.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BBH x PCY</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol’s heart breaks. “Our initials.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He reaches out and touches the photo gently as if he could touch Baekhyun’s skin through the screen. None of this makes sense—why would he write their initials on his body? Would this count as keeping his own name safe? How did he lose his memories?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol </span>
  <em>
    <span>needs </span>
  </em>
  <span>to talk to the trees.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you have any idea what might’ve happened?” Jongin asked. He sounds a little desperate now, watching the emotions probably take root in Chanyeol, like he’s afraid that Chanyeol will leave without giving any real answers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Which is exactly what he’s planning to do. Chanyeol ignores the police officer and looks at Sehun—his roommate, one of his best friends—and only wishes he had more time to say goodbye. He has a feeling this next decision is a stupid one that might get him killed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for being here.” He pulls Sehun into a hug despite the awkward angle of two gangly people on a small hospital bed. Breathing deep, he enjoys the familiar smell of antiseptic and expensive honey shampoo that always seems to linger around Sehun, even in his sheets. “Please bring me the release form.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun goes limp in his arms. “Chanyeol, not yet.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m legally allowed to sign myself out against the advice of my nurse.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But—” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fine.” Sehun pulls away and plucks a paper from the lower left drawer, his lip wobbling. “Fucking</span>
  <em>
    <span> fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol skims the paperwork—legally unable to press charges against the hospital for any injuries sustained after leaving against the advice of a healthcare professional, yadda yadda—and signs his name with a flourish.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not just advising you to stay as your nurse.” Sehun furrows his elegant brows. “I’m asking as your friend.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.” Chanyeol passes the paper back. Sehun’s shoulders move with a deep breath. That might’ve been the end of it, had Chanyeol not added, “I love you and I’ll call you as soon as I can, alright?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun shakes his head. An ugly little laugh escapes. His hands clench around the paper, crumpling its edges. “I can’t believe you. I waited all day and all night hoping you’d wake up.” He wipes furiously at his eyes. “Even when Jongdae went home, I picked up an extra shift so I could keep checking on you, and now you’re throwing yourself back out there like it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Like we haven’t all been worried sick about you and... you’re being selfish.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s not it! No, no, I’m sorry.” Chanyeol stands up and starts moving toward the door even as his chest constricts. He’s a horrible person for leaving like this, and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> that, but he’s doing the right thing. “It’s not about me. I appreciate what you’ve done, Sehun, thank you. I just—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He glances out the window, where the sun is fully below the mountains and orange is fading into navy across the sky and finishes, “I have to get Baekhyun back. I’m the only one who can.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin stands and interrupts. “What do you mean? If you know where he is, I’ll follow.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The police officer is taller than expected. His shoulders aren’t broad but he’s sturdy and lithe, quick as he moves in front of the door to block Chanyeol’s exit. There’s probably a legal way for him to detain Chanyeol that Chanyeol won’t be able to get around.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol gently claps Jongin on the shoulders. He’s handsome, gorgeously tan, and exactly Sehun’s type, so they should have a grand ol’ time investigating together.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know where he is.” Chanyeol does his best puppy eyes and lays on the charm. “But I’ll find him and bring him home. Just sit tight, officer.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then he shoves past Jongin and hurries into the hallway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He must look a fright—tall, pale, and dressed in nothing but a robe that exposes his back—so Chanyeol sprints past startled nurses, a couple in a wheelchair, and three receptionists before he breaks free through the double doors. He leaves shouting confusion in his wake. Someone’s probably coming after him. Jongin, if no one else. Where can he go with no shoes, no wallet, and no clothes?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The evening is cooler than expected. Goosebumps raise on his arms. Luckily, Niamh’s Hollow is a small town, and Chanyeol cuts through the parking lot of Don’s Diner without anyone seeing him. He’s only two streets from the firehouse. His clothes will be there, at least.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If he had any doubts about the forest’s involvement, they disappear. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Because the trees are completely silent. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Two cars pass him on the street. One honks. Chanyeol winces—he doesn’t want to be the talk of the town come tomorrow, but surely he will be. The firehouse comes into view and he counts the cars on the street. They’ve got a full house tonight, including Luhan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slides up to the side door, which they leave unlocked for quick trash takeouts, and jiggles the knob. Lights are on in the kitchen. Chanyeol peeks in and doesn’t immediately see anyone. Jinri is probably hosting a Bachelorette watch party, which leaves him free to sneak towards the staircase.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol isn’t doing anything wrong by breaking into the firehouse. He works here, and in any other situation, the team would love to see him, but he doesn’t want to answer their questions. Eight </span>
  <em>
    <span>days </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’s been asleep. He wipes sweat off his forehead and tip-toes up the carpeted stairs. Someone’s running a shower, so he takes extra precaution down the hallway towards his room.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wraps his hand around the knob and sends a quick plea that Luhan is the one showering right now. Please, please let the room be empty.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Slowly, he opens the door.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The room is blessedly silent. Chanyeol’s usual bed is rumpled, so Taemin must’ve slept there last night. A chilly breeze blows through the cracked window, ruffling the pages of a romance book propped on Luhan’s pillow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol dives under the opposite bunk and pulls out his emergency bag of clothes. In a flash he changes into a thin cotton shirt and jeans. Not suited for a cool spring night, but eons better than a hospital gown.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Finally. He releases a sigh of relief and sits on the edge of the bed to spend half a second processing. His next move is obvious: confront the forest and find Baekhyun. Should he bring anything? What if the trees are still angry at whatever he’d done to piss them off? He was only mining for gold when they turned on him…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Those moody fucking shrubs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The door opens with a thunk.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shit.” Chanyeol looks up. “Hi.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Luhan drops the towel from around his waist. “Chany—AAAAAH!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shhh, oh my god!” Chanyeol slaps a hand over his own eyes, but it’s too late. He saw his superior officer naked. “Oh my—</span>
  <em>
    <span>why the fuck did you</span>
  </em>
  <span>—shhh Luhan please shut up! Holy shit.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Gathering the towel around his waist again, face as red as one of their trucks, Luhan settles uncomfortably on his own bed. He clears his throat extra low, like that will erase the memory of his girlish squeal. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Luhan takes a deep breath and fetches his glasses from the side table. When he can properly glare at Chanyeol across the room, he says, “You’re back! Are you okay?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They didn’t call me.” Luhan runs a hand through his wet blonde hair. “I told them to let me know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol awkwardly kicks the hospital gown further underneath the bed with one foot. Hopefully no one will see it and ask questions. He stands and brushes off his pants, smiling briskly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, well, I was just heading out. Good to see you. I’ll be back—um—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His stutter is his downfall.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Luhan’s eyes narrow. He’s always been the most observant member of the team, the one most likely to catch Taemin slacking on chores, and in the quiet of their shared room, he inspects Chanyeol shrewdly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What did you come by for?” Luhan chews his lower lip thoughtfully. It’s a habit that reminds Chanyeol of Baekhyun suddenly, and his heart twinges. He really needs to go.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Just clothes.” Chanyeol stands and makes his way to the door. “Tell everyone I miss them. Sorry for going MIA.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You were in a coma.” Luhan grasps his towel tight and follows. “Don’t apologize. But you’re feeling better? Did they figure out what the hell happened?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They stand at an impasse at the door. Guilt once again sparks in Chanyeol’s chest—his friends just care about him and want to know he’s okay. If the situations were reversed, and Luhan showed up back to work after a week in the hospital, he’d throw a welcome back party. He can understand their concern.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he can’t waste a second explaining himself. Baekhyun is out there without his memories, potentially lost and wandering, and it might be the forest’s fault. Which makes Chanyeol semi-responsible. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They figured it out.” Chanyeol reaches out to squeeze Luhan’s arm, remembers the towel, and thinks better of it. “I’ll be back on the rotation soon. I really have to go, but—” He recalls his phone tossed haphazardly on his hospital bed. “Call me later.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay.” Luhan furrows his brows. “Take your time, let us know what you need.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, Luhan.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then Chanyeol hurries. He doesn’t bother staying quiet on his way out, and he hears startled exclamations from the living room as he speeds through. Familiar sights blur past—the swanky new television, the downtrodden beige refrigerator with a taped photo of Jinri’s little sister, the flickering wave-shaped lamp. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’ll miss the station, if he doesn’t come back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No. Chanyeol will succeed. He’ll find Baekhyun and come back in one piece, even if he has to argue with the trees until he’s blue in the face. When he bursts out the side door, it’s properly dusk, and he wastes no time in plunging into the woods. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The trees are still silent.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Frustrated, Chanyeol stomps far enough away from civilization that he can throw out his arms and shout, “What are you doing?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A distant truck rumbles down the highway. On the branch of a nearby oak, an owl hoots good morning greetings. No breeze lends itself to the leaves, no scuttling insects reveal themselves as guides. He receives no answer from the forest. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol sits heavily on a stump. “You sent me into a coma. Thanks a fucking lot. Where’s Baekhyun? Please, just… I know you know where he is. Tell me what happened.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He thinks it’s hopeless—that the forest has truly turned its back on him—when the faraway cry of a cicada startles him. Another joins, and another, until the forest teems with screaming insects and Chanyeol almost misses the faint, pitchy whisper of the trees.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We know where he is.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol springs to his feet. He approaches an old, scarred oak. “Where?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We will make you a deal</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the oak whispers. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Give us your memories and we’ll give you back your love.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He’s not my—” Chanyeol shakes his head. “No. Just bring me to him. Now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Trade us. Memories for Baekhyun.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No. Is that the same deal you made him?” Emotion clogs his throat and he has to swallow hard to continue. “That you’d take his memories in exchange for…. what?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A sudden gust of cold air sends Chanyeol’s hair into a tizzy. The trees sound reproachful. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Offer him a deal? No. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Several voices chime in together. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No. He’s not deserving. Not blessed. We ate from him. We sent him home.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Blessed. That title again. Chanyeol’s sick of hearing that he’s blessed, he’s chosen, he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>privileged</span>
  </em>
  <span> for this connection with an ancient, finicky beast in the shape of a forest. All his life it’s been a back and forth, push and pull, between love and hate for these woods. Anger and disgust are winning. Indignation on behalf of Baekhyun brews in his chest like an incoming storm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After everything they’ve been through, this might be what destroys his relationship with Niamh’s Wood.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How dare you.” Chanyeol balls his fist and rounds on the closest oak, a tall and spindly tree with gracefully arched branches. He stands with both feet perched on its roots in a risky show of aggression. His heart races. “You ate from him like he’s nothing. He’s a</span>
  <em>
    <span> person</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I don’t care how blessed I am, Baekhyun and I are the same.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not worthy. Only you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If I’m worthy, then I demand a better deal!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The trees hush. A lone cawing raven can be heard above the breeze. Even the grass and tiny insects scrambling over dirt and roots seem to be holding their breath. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A sweet lilting voice rises from the shallow groove between two logs, where a sproutling is just visible. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What do you desire, little one?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol walks slowly over to the sproutling and stands above it. “I want Baekhyun and I to find each other. I want us to leave this forest together, unharmed, and in possession of our memories.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Of course you will find each other</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the sproutling chirps. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Of course you will go home. That’s all we want. But the memories you must earn back. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How do I earn them back?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A decision will come. You will make the right one.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol leans forward and takes a leaf in hand, rubbing his fingers gently over the smooth, plastic-like skin. He considers ripping the leaf from its branch, but he knows from experience that will only silence the forest for days with anger. He doesn’t have time to keep negotiating. Baekhyun is out there somewhere, lost and alone, and it’s Chanyeol’s fault.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stands up and casts his eyes deep into the trees.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fine, I accept. Now take me to Baekhyun.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h4>
  <span>CHAPTER 6</span>
</h4><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>...and I am out with lanterns, looking for myself.</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>—Emily Dickinson</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>IN DREAMS HE REMEMBERS—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After sixth period Trigonometry in the fall of junior year, Chanyeol trudges down Main and takes a left up Mulberry. He skirts the gardens of several sprawling properties before coming to a stop in front of a wooden puzzle-house at the top of the hill. He’s here to check on Baekhyun.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s only his third time visiting, and something about the age of the house is still unsettling to Chanyeol, so his palms sweat as he approaches the door. A gold knocker in the shape of a bird is cold to the touch when he knocks—seven times, just to be obnoxious.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On the seventh knock the door swings open. Baekhyun stands there in his boxers and a stained white shirt, torn at the bottom hem, smacking on a granola bar. His face is uncomfortably pale, his knees knobby and alarming.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Damn.” Chanyeol raises his eyebrows. “You look awful.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun makes a nasty face. “Why are you here?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I brought you the homework.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead of handing over the bundle of papers there in the doorway, Chanyeol pushes past Baekhyun and invites himself inside. Every window in the living room is yawning open, inviting fresh air and draping sunlight over a vase of fresh bougainvilleas on the table.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A small cracked radio is playing old-timey music from the mantle. Ashes dust the hearth, as if a homey fire was lit last night or the night before. In short, the house looks a million times better than Baekhyun does.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol cups his hands around his mouth and shouts through the house, “Hi Auntie Kim!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She’s not here.” Baekhyun shuts the door and follows Chanyeol blankly. He sets his granola bar wrapper on the table. “She works during the day. And she won’t come over unless Child Protection Services are coming, anyway.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Chanyeol takes off his backpack. That means Baekhyun’s been looking after the house at least, if not himself. There’s a faint smell of lemon in the air. “I guess that’s for the better?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun shrugs. “Thanks for bringing my stuff.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol pulls out a stack of papers. “No problem.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wordlessly Baekhyun accepts the papers and drops them on the table. Before his mother died, he was enthusiastic about school, if not a star student. Chanyeol’s marks have always been a bit higher, with the exception of his archnemesis chemistry, but he’d gladly trade his grades for a chance to hear Baekhyun rip apart the latest misery-porn classic they’re assigned to read.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They fall into an awkward silence. Baekhyun drums his fingers on the table and looks at the clock.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a silence between two people who know each other well enough not to speak for fear of hurting each other—because Baekhyun is giving clear signals that he wants Chanyeol to leave, while Chanyeol just wants to shake Baekhyun by the shoulders and tell him to </span>
  <em>
    <span>wake the hell up it’s been three months and you need to take care of yourself</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That wouldn’t go over well. But his frustration and sympathy are at war. How long does Baekhyun need to grieve like this, passively and disconnected? Is this better than the rage and destruction of the first week? Chanyeol doesn’t know how to help. He’s not good at comfort. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He</span>
  <em>
    <span> is </span>
  </em>
  <span>good at distraction.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So Chanyeol blurts out, “Wanna play Just Dance?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He thinks the answer will be no. Baekhyun looks at the clock again and seems to zone out for several tense seconds. His face stays completely empty, but his lips move. “Okay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They silently set up the game in front of the couch and cycle through a few pop ballads before queuing up Cascada’s Everytime We Touch (DJ Remix). Baekhyun knows every step to every song by heart. He’s good at this even without trying, eyes glazed on the screen while Chanyeol twists into uncoordinated shapes to keep up with the choreography. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He notices Baekhyun watching from the corner of his eye and starts exaggerating his movements even more. Chanyeol is out of breath in seconds but he keeps huffing along, legs splaying into the splits with every kick-ball-change, and finally he hears breathy, distracted laughter from Baekhyun.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The song ends and Baekhyun leans forward over his knees, arms resting up on his head as he breathes. “You’re fucking terrible,” he says.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have…” Chanyeol coughs and presses on a cramp in his side. “Many other talents…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I need water.” Baekhyun staggers to the fridge. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Feeling tentatively hopeful, Chanyeol collapses on the couch to catch his breath. To his surprise he makes direct eye contact with a raven perched in the window, who cocks its head and trains intelligent black eyes on the room. It hops over the sill and onto the end table beside Chanyeol’s arm.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Um,” he says. “Hello?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shoo.” Baekhyun returns with two full glasses, one of which he sets on the end table, displacing the raven. “Go back outside.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The raven flaps outside without a </span>
  <em>
    <span>caw </span>
  </em>
  <span>of protest. This far from Main, wild critters aren’t unusual, and the house is so old it’s likely home to a whole zoo of pests that Chanyeol doesn’t care for, unless they’re being used as mouthpieces for the forest. Which has happened more than once, to his utter horror. Memorably, a deer tapped on his bedroom window last year to announce that the trees were bored. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>audacity</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol resists a shudder. “Seems friendly.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He’s a menace.” Baekhyun chugs his water and collapses onto the couch. “I fed them </span>
  <em>
    <span>one time</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You fed them? They’ll never leave.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun shrugs. His eyes slide unfocused over the kitchen doorway, where decorative sprigs of holly are collecting dust—the only visible sign of wear and tear in the living room. The leaves must be too high to reach. Chanyeol watches Baekhyun stare listlessly in that direction for ten seconds before he can’t stand it. He gets up and fetches a rag to dust the leaves.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s an easy stretch, but Baekhyun is instantly at his side waving him away. “You don’t have to clean my house, it’s okay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I want to.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun gets on his tiptoes and reaches for the rag, trying to slap Chanyeol’s hands from the holly. “Well, you’re not helping!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol drops his arms at his sides. They stand facing each other, looking anywhere else, awkward and hurt and voiceless, until Baekhyun turns and fetches his glass of water. He finishes it. Unspoken words bubble in Chanyeol’s throat. He’s close to boiling over.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Look, I don’t know how to make this any better,” Chanyeol bursts out, shattering the awkward pause. “I</span>
  <em>
    <span> really</span>
  </em>
  <span> wish I could. But I’m here. If you need anything, I’m here for you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun stares into his empty glass. His knuckles are white. “Thanks.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not gonna…” Baekhyun trails off and looks up. Emotion shows on his face—furrowed brows, a downward pucker to his lips—that might be progress or a warning sign. “I’m not gonna feel better. Maybe ever.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s okay. Even if you never feel better, I’ll still be here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What if I don’t want you here?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The words fall like petals on the table between them, uttered lightly, with no shame, but Chanyeol flinches. Baekhyun doesn’t want him. He should’ve guessed that. It still hurts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This feels precarious, like he’ll say one wrong thing and potentially lose his best friend for good. So he tries his best to swallow his pride and not take any hurtful words personally. Easier said than done when he’s standing in Baekhyun’s living room but feeling so, so out of reach.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol sets down the rag and pulls Baekhyun into a hug. He wasn’t expecting it, and his smaller body remains tight and unyielding at first, arms clenched at his sides. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then I’ll leave,” Chanyeol sighs, nestling his hands into Baekhyun’s sweater in exact opposition to his words.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s quiet. A drifting smell of bonfire smoke comes through the window from a neighboring house, bringing forth images of warmth, family, togetherness. Chanyeol’s eyes slide closed and he relishes this moment holding his best friend close, even if it’s the last moment he gets.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Slowly Baekhyun unwinds. At first he relaxes into the embrace, then sets down the glass and links both arms around Chanyeol’s waist. He takes a deep breath and it’s like a switch is flipped—Baekhyun leans into him, gripping too tightly, face buried in Chanyeol’s chest. It hurts but it’s wonderful. They’re pressed together in all the right places. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t leave me,” Baekhyun mumbles into his shirt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nope. You’re stuck with me for good now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun sniffles. “Okay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t actually cry, but they stand like that for several minutes just breathing deeply. Eventually Chanyeol starts swaying a little. It’s not his fault—the poppy hits from Just Dance are stuck in his head now. He brings Baekhyun with him until they’re swaying in earnest. Feet tap along the carpet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Suddenly they’re dancing awkwardly around the room. Baekhyun follows his lead, arms on his shoulders, trying not to laugh even though Chanyeol can’t keep a beat with his body and they step on each other’s feet more often than the floor.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One of them must stop, but he can’t say who, or maybe it was both of them because suddenly Baekhyun is still and staring up at him and Chanyeol is breathless.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sways forward. He feels like he’s chasing the sun, just following in the wake of Baekhyun’s light, and Chanyeol is relief-drunk and dazzled. He wants to...</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The home phone rings with a shrill call.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s probably Auntie Siwoo.” Baekhyun disentangles himself and his face shuts down, returning to droopy, inexpressive eyes and a flat mouth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>While Baekhyun picks up the phone and murmurs into it quietly, Chanyeol takes a deep breath and braces himself on the back of a chair. He stares out the back window, letting his eyes relax over the swaying treetops past the sparse grass of the backyard.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>From this vantage point, near the top of the hill, he can see where the tip of Niamh’s Wood meets Main, and a faint red traffic glow emanates from the road in compliment with the fading dusk sky. He didn’t even notice the sun was starting to set. The dinner rush will begin at VIVA ARBOL soon enough, so he’s missed his chance to see his mom today. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The trees are a little too far to hear clearly, but they’re restless and whispering about something down there. Chanyeol has a feeling the forest is watching him. Watching Baekhyun. A shiver of strange apprehension chills his gut. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As quietly as he dares, Chanyeol whispers, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Shhh</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” and hopes that the woods take a hint. He shakes off the feeling of dread and turns around in time to see Baekhyun lower the phone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They’re coming tomorrow,” Baekhyun sighs. “You know what. Whatever. I don’t wanna talk about it. How’s practice going?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shrugs. “Well, I skipped today. Hopefully Coach isn’t too mad.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You skipped to bring me homework?” Baekhyun’s eyes stretch wide. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Why</span>
  </em>
  <span>? If you’re shooting for captain you can’t just skip practice.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The irony almost makes Chanyeol laugh, but he reels it in. Maybe Baekhyun shouldn’t skip school if he’s shooting to graduate, then. But he wouldn’t appreciate that dose of honesty today, even though the stubborn set to his mouth suggests he knows exactly what Chanyeol is thinking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol takes a sheepish seat at the table. Suddenly he doesn’t know where to put his hands. “I didn’t just come for the homework. I wanted to see you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, thanks,” Baekhyun mumbles, scratching at his hair with one hand and looking away. “Do you want food? I have instant noodles.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>While the thought of pure sodium sounds delicious, Chanyeol has a better idea. He stands and holds out his hands. “Take me to your pantry. I’ll cook.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Thirty minutes later they’re eating grilled chicken and spaghetti, haphazardly thrown together with expired tomato sauce, but the parmesan is fresh and Chanyeol is satisfied with himself. He feels a little more secure, a little more useful. In the grand scheme of things, one afternoon and pasta dinner don’t fix Baekhyun at all. But at least maybe he’s helping.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hugs Baekhyun goodbye afterwards and as he’s walking home, prays for his health and safety and happiness. That’s all he’s ever wanted for his family. And Baekhyun is, without a doubt, family.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>IN DREAMS HE IS REMEMBERED.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol relearns the forest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As if trying to make amends for past transgressions, the trees are putting on their Sunday best tonight. Early spring robins flitter in pairs around his head, filling the sweet air with song, while a magnolia vine blooms in time with his steps. A fearless badger trundles across the path only meters from Chanyeol’s feet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s not fair. The woods know badgers are his favorite, know every way to woo Chanyeol into relaxing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even the sun is frozen in the perfect onset of a sunset—a peach and margarine sky which hasn’t moved for hours even as Chanyeol walks, aimless, along the unfamiliar trail. He doesn’t know where he’s going. He doesn’t really care, because the forest agreed to lead him to Baekhyun. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He refuses to speak with the trees. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Until he feels them whispering in his head—different than usual, with a real presence like ants wandering inquisitively into his ears—and he swats at empty air.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Stop that,” Chanyeol chastises as he steps over a rock jutting into the path. “What do you want?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We’re hungry. </span>
  </em>
  <span>A blueberry bush heavy with fruit shudders and deposits a layer of leaves and overripe berries.</span>
  <em>
    <span> It’s time. Let us. Choose.  </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Despite the tingle of fear in his chest, Chanyeol throws out his hands in exasperation. “Fine! Go ahead, I thought you started already—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>IN DREAMS HE REMEMBERS—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The day that his sister dies is October of senior year and Chanyeol has invited his friends for dinner at VIVA ARBOL.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tables are mostly empty on Wednesday nights, aside from the regular elderly couple in the candlelit corner, so Chanyeol feels comfortable taking off his bowtie and sliding into the booth he reserved to thumb at his phone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is no one’s first time at the restaurant, but he still hears his mother’s voice in his head nagging that </span>
  <em>
    <span>maintaining good impressions is always important, Chanyeol</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so he glances around with guilt to make sure he isn’t caught slacking off.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mrs. Park is currently in the kitchen cracking lame jokes with the chef, Mr. Sun. Her laugh echoes through the dining hall and Chanyeol almost misses when the heavy glass doors slide open and Jongdae shouts, “Hey, we’re here!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For some reason, Jongdae’s hands are absolutely filthy from nail to wrist, and he waves them enthusiastically before gesturing to the bathroom and making a beeline for assumedly the sink. Yixing follows with a happy pat on Chanyeol’s shoulders and an, “Ooooh, I’m starving!” as he lunges for the menu.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Behind them comes Baekhyun.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His hair is recently dyed—a gorgeous dark brown that accentuates his paling autumn skin—and time seems to freeze as Baekhyun pushes bangs out of his eyes and smiles at Chanyeol. He’s wearing dark wash jeans and an old Pikachu shirt that’s been floating around in his closet since middle school, too tight in the shoulders, but he looks stunning as always. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol wants to gather him up and kiss him on the mouth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead he does a cool up-nod and says, “Hey.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey.” Baekhyun copies the nod. “How was your day?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Boring as shit. I need the season to start already.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They slide into the booth beside Yixing. Baekhyun hops once on the bounce-friendly cushions, as if he can’t resist, and starts inspecting the menu that Yixing holds. He’s in a good mood today, which automatically puts Chanyeol in a good mood, too.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catching the end of their exchange, Yixing chimes in. “But it’s your </span>
  <em>
    <span>last </span>
  </em>
  <span>basketball season. Aren’t you sad?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Jeez, not yet. Let me enjoy it first.” Chanyeol cranes his neck back to check on the elderly couple. The man needs a refill on water, so he stands. “Hold on—be right back. Figure out what you guys want to order.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He refills the man’s water and flirts with his wife, who always blushes and shakes her head when Chanyeol brings out his arsenal of mom-jokes. He’s great with moms. And grandmas, and aunts, and… okay, everyone really. Charm comes naturally to the Parks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A slamming door greets him as he returns the pitcher to the kitchen. Jongdae almost runs directly into his chest as he’s leaving the bathroom.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Excuse</span>
  </em>
  <span> me, </span>
  <em>
    <span>sir</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Chanyeol pretends like he’s about to drop the pitcher. “I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>sorry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongdae crosses his arms. “Where’s the manager? I want to complain, the waitstaff here are too fucking ugly to look at.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shut the fuck up.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And rude!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol returns the pitcher and hurries back to his own booth, “accidentally” kicking Jongdae as he sits for good measure, but they both dissolve into laughter when Chanyeol misses and kicks the seat instead. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun looks up when they laugh. Light from the fake chandeliers catches in his eyes and twinkles. He looks so good here, against a backdrop of dark wood and dim lighting, that Chanyeol can hardly look away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’s so funny?” Baekhyun glances between them, a smile hiding in his face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You are.” Jongdae raises his eyebrows. “Funny-</span>
  <em>
    <span>looking</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yixing sighs and mumbles, “Such a dumbass.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Jongdae is too busy laughing and making faces at Baekhyun to hear. Everyone decides on a plate and Chanyeol jots their orders down meticulously, ignoring Jongdae’s request for extra extra extra ice in his tea. Before he can waltz back to the kitchen, Baekhyun grabs his sleeve.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you mind if I come with you?” His voice is quiet and private. “I want to say hi to your mom.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah! She’s not busy, come on back.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The elderly couple flags him down for their bill, so Chanyeol gets distracted and just waves Baekhyun toward the kitchen door. He prints their receipt and brings complimentary chocolate-covered mints, which they thank him for while slipping a cash tip under the plate, like they have done every week for months and probably will continue to do for weeks to come.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>By the time Chanyeol clears their table and wobbles with armfuls of plates into the kitchen, his mother and Baekhyun are already chatting away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Chanyeol,” his mother calls between laughs, one hand resting on the counter beside Mr. Sun’s bowl of freshly-sliced Portabellas. “You didn’t tell me Baekhyun wants to become a teacher. We’ll have to put him in contact with Yoora.” She turns to Baekhyun and pushes her glasses up her nose. “Her school has the best program. All the students are at least partially funded.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, he’s mentioned it.” Chanyeol slides the plates and cutlery into the sink. “I didn’t know you decided already.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun shrugs. “I haven’t applied anywhere yet. I’ll probably just go to the community college down the road. I just… it’s what my mom did before.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, of course.” Mrs. Park wipes her hands on a towel and quickly checks the garlic bread in the oven. “Well let us know if you need any help, okay? We’ll give you Yoora’s number. I’m sure your aunt has everything set up, but just in case. You and Chanyeol can enroll together.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol turns to check the pot so no one will see his eyes roll. He’s not going to Yoora’s school, that’s hours away from Niamh’s Hollow. As if he would leave home when there’s a perfectly acceptable trade school right in their neighborhood.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun’s smile falls. “Yeah. Thank you, Mrs. Park. I just wanted to come over and say hi, it’s nice to see you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They exchange sweet goodbyes and hug for what looks like the second time. Chanyeol tries not to stare at Baekhyun’s retreating back. His mother and Baekhyun are friendly, he knows that, and he’s never really asked about their bond because Baekhyun’s mother is dead and it feels insensitive, but—he’s surprised by how affectionate they are with each other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s really nice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The kitchen clatters into productivity, and between whizzing from oven to sink to soda machine, Chanyeol can’t imagine how that conversation started. He and Baekhyun have barely talked about what they want to do after graduation; he knows he’s settling for a quick two-year degree in engineering and then joining the fire academy. That’s been his plan so long he almost forgets it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Baekhyun has a habit of waving him off and saying, “Yeah, I’ll do something education-related. I’ll figure it out when apps are due.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Apps are due next month. Chanyeol wipes down the counter and sidesteps Mr. Sun at the stove to arrange a basket of fresh bread. His mother shoos him away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Clock out! Your friends are here, go spend time with them. I’ll bring the dishes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay, okay.” Chanyeol still fills his arms with the bread basket and a tray of miscellaneous sodas. “Thanks, Mom. You’re the best.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I am.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He blows her a kiss and returns to the booth. Yixing descends like a hound on the garlic bread and sends crumbs all over the recently-vacuumed seats. Jongdae and Baekhyun are in the middle of a passionate debate over Animal Crossing vs Sims, which Chanyeol can’t really contribute to, as a fan of exclusively shooter games—the bloodier the better—so he sips from his ice water and joins the bread feast. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Food arrives quickly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Baekhyun puts the first forkful of penne ala vodka in his mouth, he makes a salacious noise that comes out much louder than he expected—evidenced by his wide eyes and sheepish smile. “Um.” He wipes his mouth and makes eye contact with Chanyeol. “It’s fucking amazing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“As always.” Jongdae takes a huge bite of his personal margherita pizza. “Give my compliments to the chef, she’s a ten.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s my </span>
  <em>
    <span>mom</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol pulls a nasty face and Yixing pinches Jongdae. They launch into a tablewide discussion of the upcoming senior prank, orchestrated by some meathead on the lacrosse team who invited all the jocks to dye the school pool orange with food dye, which Baekhyun thinks is hilarious and everyone else thinks is idiotic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Under the familiar lights of his family’s restaurant, Chanyeol feels happy. Content. At home. He catches every smile that Baekhyun sends his way and beams back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When they’re finished eating, Chanyeol stacks their plates and sets off for the kitchen. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Three steps from the table, a piercing pain erupts in his head. Plates shatter. Glass shards cascade around his feet. Chanyeol knows he’s suddenly on his knees clutching his head, but he can’t remember falling, and the whole universe is reduced to agony and white noise.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Through his own gasps and the sting of screaming in his ears, Chanyeol can parse a simple repetitive sentence. The trees are wailing. </span>
  <em>
    <span>She is dying. She is dying. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A soft hand touches his neck. Chanyeol reaches up to grab it, knowing it’s Baekhyun, but his hand is damp with blood. He had planted both palms firmly in the glass shards and now they’re sliced up and smearing blood everywhere. Red is striking against the chunks of white plate, drawing his attention, but he can’t focus beyond the trees.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With every pulse of Chanyeol’s heart, their screams quiet into animalistic keens, primal and grieving and more emotion than sound. Like a mother losing her child.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yoora,” he whispers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The shape of his mother running from the kitchen is blurry behind Chanyeol’s wet eyes. He knows his sister is dead. He chokes on her name over and over again, even as his mother cradles his face and yells, “What happened? Oh, God, I can hear them again—</span>
  <em>
    <span>what happened</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol grips her wrists tight, ignoring the sting in his palms and the three hovering friends behind him. The kitchen door is hanging ajar and Mr. Sun is standing in the threshold unsmiling, looking out towards the darkening windows as if he knows the answer will come from out there, and that nothing is wrong with Chanyeol beyond the audible breaking of his heart.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yoora,” Chanyeol repeats. “Yoora…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His mother drops one hand to fumble with her phone in her back pocket.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The room comes back into focus slowly as Chanyeol catches his breath. He watches Mrs. Park dial a familiar number and raise it to her ear, but he can’t watch her face fall with every unanswered ring. There must be a way to change what he heard. It can’t be too late. The forest will help his sister because she’s one of them, too.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Knees wobbling, Chanyeol stands. At first he doesn’t compute the pressure at his side, but then he realizes Baekhyun is holding him up and Yixing is speaking quietly in his ear. Faintly he hears his mother leave a voicemail.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“—go to the hospital? I can drive.” Yixing raises both eyebrows emphatically, forcing Chanyeol to look at him and focus.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>No hospital</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he says, but his voice comes out thick and distorted. “No hospital. Outside.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pushes forward, dragging Baekhyun with him—Baekhyun who is unwilling to let go, who ties a cloth napkin around Chanyeol’s hand even as they march out the door and spill into the dark parking lot. Streetlamps flicker on. The air is crisp and fills his lungs, clearing out the last lingering pain. Chanyeol feels nothing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Distantly he hears his mom’s phone ring. She answers and then echoes, “An accident?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Any tiny, lingering seeds of doubt are swept away. Jongdae and Yixing whisper violently amongst themselves, but Chanyeol hits the sidewalk and keeps going. He rounds the corner to the basketball court and separates Baekhyun from his side like removing a suction cup.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, we should clean your hands—” Baekhyun starts to say, reaching out, but he’s too slow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol bolts. He runs over the asphalt and into the trees, ignoring Baekhyun’s startled cry.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Chanyeol, wait!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t. It’s dark enough he can hardly see where he’s going, branches whipping him in the face with echoing murmurs of pain, but he runs until his lungs burn and he’s far enough into the woods to start screaming.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So he fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>screams</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He pounds fists against the dirt. Wind shreds the clouds apart until sickly moonlight illuminates the path, casting long, grotesque shadows over Chanyeol’s body. A wolf howls in the distance, but otherwise, the forest is frustratingly silent and cold. He rages against it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’s happening?” He yells at the trees. “Show me what’s going on!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No answer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Save her.” He curls into fetal position and buries his head in his arms. His insides feel like they’re exploding, like he could cry nightmare tears for eternity and never run dry, like he’s the one dying.  “Save her,” he repeats, voice breaking. “Do something, you—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>SHE IS DEAD. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The forest roars back into life viciously. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s too late. We can do nothing. She’s dead.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Images of Yoora’s face pour forth from the ether, blazing across Chanyeol’s mind so fast he can barely process them. His sister as a child swinging from the branches of a willow tree, smashing the buds of a rose bush, shooing away bluejays.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yoora laughing, Yoora dancing through her bedroom window, Yoora bundled in a leather jacket and cursing at the forest. Her whole childhood a forbidden love, the trees calling out to her pathetically. Her silence and disapproval. Her wish to be normal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol’s mouth shapes the word but he can’t breathe. How, he wants to cry. How could this happen. Yoora is young and electric. She’s stubborn and argumentative and she’s supposed to be blessed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This is your fault.” Chanyeol presses his forehead against the dirt, ignoring the rocks and sticks that prod into his skin. “Yoora has no </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span> because of you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She was blessed.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Blessed. Ours.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, this is a fucking curse. She would’ve known—if she knew her </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa </span>
  </em>
  <span>she could’ve—” Chanyeol’s voice breaks. He wants to project all of his pain through the dirt and roots. Let the trees feed on his agony and feel what they’ve taken from him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Blessed. No geasa, no limitations.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Free.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Free. She was free. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She was ours.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She hates you,” Chanyeol whispers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A booming clap of thunder startles him. Chanyeol looks up through his own messy hair at the sky—it’s too dark to see clouds or stars, only blackness above, but a flash of color catches his eye.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a white wolf running towards him through the trees. Its fur glows like the moon and he stares, transfixed, unaware of the danger until it’s too late and the wolf is bearing down on him with intense, ice-blue eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Its jaw opens to reveal rows of white, glittering teeth...</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before Chanyeol can even flinch, a black streak catapults into the pelt of the wolf. A cat, black as night itself. She attacks with claws out and hisses fearlessly at the wolf’s muzzle. They lunge for each other, sparring with snapping fangs and glinting claws only inches away, and Chanyeol feels his heart rate skyrocket. What the</span>
  <em>
    <span> hell </span>
  </em>
  <span>is happening?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With the feral animals distracted, Chanyeol carefully stands and backs away. Before this hellish scene gets worse.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The wind picks up and begins howling around him, drowning out the inconsistent peals of thunder and yowls from the fight. As he watches, the cat’s hind leg is caught in the wolf’s jaws. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Crunch.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Stop!” Chanyeol shouts, but he feels his voice stolen by the wind as soon as it leaves his lips. He can’t stand to watch idly by. The ground shudders as he wipes tears from his eyes. He doesn’t understand what’s happening—his familiar forest has grown cold and terrifying around him. “Stop that!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe this isn’t real. He feels like he’s watching the gory scene of a horror movie, just allowing the fight to play out in slow motion, with too-red blood and amplified howls of pain. He watches until the cat falls and doesn’t get up. Chanyeol’s tears have stopped, distracted as he is, and when the wolf turns from its prey to zero in on Chanyeol again, he makes direct eye contact.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In those yellow eyes he sees a hatred so deep it brushes against his soul.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol turns and runs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t think—he just flies over the underbrush, cupping both hands over his ears as the thunder grows louder, like it’s right above his head, and the wind slams him off-balance. The sky was clear earlier in the day, but the forest now feels like the epicenter of an earthquake and the eyewall of a hurricane all at once.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His chest aches by the time Chanyeol breaks free of the trees. He can’t get enough air.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Disoriented, he pivots and tries to make sense of what he’s seeing. The basketball court, shrouded in shadows, and a distant streetlight casting a glow over the asphalt. The square shape of VIVA ARBOL rising on his left.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He emerged right where he entered—and there’s Baekhyun in the same spot, shoulders slumped and looking out towards the street. He scuffs a shoe against the ground.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol approaches him from the back, suddenly terrified that none of the forest was real. Could he have imagined the whole thing? Was it all a trick of the woods? </span>
  <em>
    <span>How did Yoora die</span>
  </em>
  <span>? He runs the final steps and grabs Baekhyun by the shoulder to make sure he’s really there and not a hallucination.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Holy shit, you came back.” Baekhyun’s eyes stretch wide and he grabs him in a hug. “I—what happened to your </span>
  <em>
    <span>hands</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They separate and Chanyeol looks down to where Baekhyun is gripping his wrists. Earlier he’d sliced open his palms on the shattered plates, but now there isn’t even a scar to mark the spot. The skin is smooth and unblemished. His stomach drops with relief. Maybe it wasn’t real.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My mom,” he says in lieu of an explanation. “Where is she?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She’s on the phone.” Baekhyun glances back to confirm his own claim. “I really thought you ran. I was worried.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol can’t focus enough to hold a conversation right now, but part of him puts the pieces together—those long moments in the forest screaming, crying, and watching a gladiator battle between two feral animals? They never happened in the real world. No time has passed since he left Baekhyun and sprinted into the woods, even though he felt like he spent an hour out there screaming, maybe two.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His theory is confirmed when he grabs Baekhyun’s hand and rounds the side of the restaurant. He sees his mom stepping outside, followed by Jongdae and Yixing, the phone still held to her ear, her face empty. Exactly where he left them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol walks up to his mom. He keeps a hand wrapped tightly around his best friend’s, because he can’t imagine doing this alone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t even see him. Her eyes are glassy and she finishes the call with, “My Yoora. I’ll—I’ll be right there.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then Mrs. Park falls quietly to her knees and Chanyeol goes down with her. Reality is cruel and unavoidable and true. He gathers his mother into his arms and curses everyone around him: his mother for bearing children and continuing her lineage of </span>
  <em>
    <span>the blessed ones</span>
  </em>
  <span>, his sister for daring to die, himself for being useless and faraway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He curses the forest for blessing them both. The Park siblings have no </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span>, only a forest that tries to love them. And Chanyeol never wanted that—he just wants his sister back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He presses his face into his mother’s shoulder and cries.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>IN DREAMS HE IS REMEMBERED.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol reaches up to touch his face—damp with tears.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Why is he crying? He was just thinking about…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well, it must’ve been something sad. He sidesteps a patch of mushrooms growing into the path and hikes onward. A long, sturdy branch doubles as his walking stick up the short incline, and Chanyeol feels at peace. Giving up his memories, relinquishing what makes him </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, is somewhat liberating.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s not so bad,” he tells a short pine. “I was scared, but this is okay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their voices return soft and musical, echoing over the gurgles of a nearby stream. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We’d never hurt you, little blessing.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol wonders what it was like for Baekhyun to hike Niamh’s Wood. Maybe he enjoyed seeing nature so up close and personal for the first time—or maybe the forest was crueller and didn’t privy Baekhyun to its sunshine and Eden-like qualities. He wishes they would have come here together. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe they had, and he’d already forgotten it. What a strange sensation, to feel his memories sliding like honey from his ears one by one, slowly and in spurts, bringing an emptiness far from clarity. Chanyeol feels okay.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“As long as I know why I’m here,” he sighs. “Let me keep Baekhyun as long as I can. Please.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There are others in his life that he loves. His mother’s face flashes in his mind, nameless, and a string of syllables</span>
  <em>
    <span> Zhang-Yi-xing </span>
  </em>
  <span>with no accompanying face, and other, smaller memories—black leather boots, dirt under pale fingernails, a burst of citrus orange on his tongue, a faded gray sweatshirt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol focuses on crystallizing Baekhyun. Every detail, down to the tiny mole above his lip, deserves to be remembered. His closet of soft t-shirts, his penchant for pastels and seafood, the sound of his laugh when he’s muffling it into a pillow, a puppy keychain that’s been hanging from his backpack for years. He imagines the way Baekhyun moves, silly and sensual.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He misses him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As soon as Chanyeol allows that thought in, nostalgia threatens to drown him. He misses his best friend. More than best friend—he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>in love</span>
  </em>
  <span> with Baekhyun. He misses making him laugh and making him moan. He even misses the dumb shit that he once hated, like Baekhyun’s disinterest in nature, his moodiness, his jealousy, which become unimportant under a tidal wave of regret.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They’ve only been apart for what feels like days, but Chanyeol knows it’s been longer. He’s been wanting more for months. Years. If only he hadn’t been so scared.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Abruptly he needs a break. He sits among the roots of a hickory tree, back against the bark, and takes a drink from his water bottle. The sun is sinking in earnest now. A lizard skitters over the leaves at his feet to disappear under tufts of grass, and he watches it go with a feeling of melancholy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As usual, the forest responds.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The first firefly is a shock. It rounds the tree perpendicular to Chanyeol’s face and nearly buzzes right into his nose before veering left, blinding him momentarily. He leaps to his feet—what a rare treat, fireflies in late spring! Several others rise from the bushes and wander in his direction. Chanyeol feels lucky.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He raises a hand to cup a particularly slow one, but as he does he notices strange colors within the insect. There’s an image being projected. He squints and leans closer, sure he’s imagining things…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Chanyeol watches a blurry image of himself, shorter, banging away at a guitar in his bedroom, somehow flickering inside the firefly’s light. He doesn’t remember this moment, but he recognizes the old ripped Iron Man shirt and his familiar pillows. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” he breathes, jerking his hands back from the firefly like it burns.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The other fireflies are the same—images of himself cooking pancakes in pajamas, splashing with a group of boys in a pool, falling asleep at a wooden desk, crying in a meadow. Memories of his life at different stages flash by. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol loses it. He catches one, and another, and tries to shove them into his water bottle with little success. Maybe if he can bottle these firefly memories, he’ll save a little bit of himself. Maybe he won’t have to lose </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He’s suddenly desperate.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No!” He scrambles for the firefly showing him splashing with a group of boys—the most important memory he can see—as it zigzags up the tree trunk. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol scales the trunk easily and perches in a middle branch. He lunges for the insect and misses. He can’t give up, this could be his only chance to cheat the forest. The insect buzzes tantalizingly close and the image solidifies. Chanyeol can see his own dimple and the face of the boy next to him. It’s Baekhyun. Of course it’s Baekhyun.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stretches again, both arms out further this time, and his hand closes around the firefly right as he falls from the branch.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol hits the ground. His head knocks into a tree root and the world goes black.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h4>
  <span>CHAPTER 7</span>
</h4><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Our lives and our choices are enframed in a pattern of history that seems to leave us nowhere to turn but towards our self-annihilation. </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <span>— Amitav Ghosh, The Great Derangement.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good morning, Officer Gorgeous.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin turns around so fast he drops his coffee. Scorching liquid spills from his steel tumbler, missing his pants by an inch but splattering upwards over the door of his cruiser, where it drips onto the asphalt of the parking lot in front of the donut shop and rivers into the gutter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sighs. “How did you find me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun reaches down and picks up the empty tumbler. He smiles, and Jongin is </span>
  <em>
    <span>annoyed goddammit, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but this nurse looks so good out of uniform it should be illegal. This morning he’s wearing ripped jeans and a loose brown sweater that does an excellent job framing his shoulders. He’s standing casually on the kerb, like this is all a coincidence, even though it’s the third time he’s surprised Jongin in town since last week.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have my ways,” Sehun says, handing over the tumbler. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You sound like a criminal.” Jongin unlocks his door and mourns the loss of his coffee. He’ll be drowsy all morning now. “And you can’t keep following me, Sehun.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are there any updates on the case?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Still no.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin gets into the driver’s seat and shoves his key into the ignition. He won’t look at Sehun, because he knows what he’ll see—lips turned downward, flat eyebrows, slumped shoulders. Anger and defeat. He hates that look. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He grabs the handle, intending to slam the door before more coffee drips onto his leather floor, but hesitates. That hesitation costs his entire day, because Sehun wedges himself in the door and leans close to Jongin’s face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>you’re still looking for them.” Sehun searches his eyes and Jongin feels something tremble in his stomach. “Just take me along. I can help.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can’t legally allow you to ride in the cruiser if you’re not under arrest or being taken to the station.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the blink of an eye, Sehun slips his hand into Jongin’s front pocket and nicks his wallet. He’s too slow to stop the offence, and Jongin feels his mouth fall open to argue—the </span>
  <em>
    <span>audacity</span>
  </em>
  <span>—but Sehun presses a finger against his lips.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Softly, Sehun’s finger moves to cup his jaw. “Then apprehend me, officer.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then he steps back and slams the door.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin takes a very deep breath. He clenches both fists around the steering wheel, keeps his eyes trained ahead on the donut shop display, and does multiplication tables in his head. By the time Sehun swings around the car and plops comfortably into the shotgun seat, he’s capable of driving. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Jongin says. “Fine.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thought so.” Sehun clicks his seatbelt. “Where to first?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin drives. “The station.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>How is it that he’s the one with a gun, but Sehun is somehow still in charge? The radio is changed thirteen times by Sehun’s bored fingers before they arrive at the station. Jongin is coffee-less and ruffled, avoiding eye contact with Sehun in fear of some strange voodoo magic which will allow Sehun to ask for whatever he wants. He’s irresistible and it’s not fair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin parks in his favorite corner spot under the willow tree. “Stay here.” He holds out his hand. “Um, but I need my ID to clock in. I’ll be pressing charges against you after my shift is over, so you’re stuck in this car until the stakeout is finished. Happy?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun lights up. He fishes the ID from Jongin’s wallet and hands it over. “A stakeout. Great.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t touch my stuff.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yessir.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There’s nothing incriminating in here, okay? Don’t go snooping.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yessir.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin cracks the windows and gets out of the car before he explodes. “And don’t call me sir—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sir yes sir!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He slams the door. Through the inch of open window, he can hear Sehun giggle. Jongin hesitates a moment, watching Sehun pull down the sunvisor and begin inspecting his own face in the mirror. What a prissy, stubborn diva. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And yet. He won’t admit it aloud, but he’s glad for Sehun’s company today. Stakeouts are the worst. Stakeouts in the preamble of Niamh’s Wood are terrifying.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin strolls through the parking lot towards the station doors. A plaque above the welcome bench displays a photo of each officer in their precinct, and he spares a rare moment to look at himself, somber and with a shaved head on the day of his graduation. He hasn’t grown much since then. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On the welcome bench, Mr. Um is smoking a cigarette and chatting on the phone. He waves and calls, “Do’s looking for you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin waves back. “He always is.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sure enough, he makes it three steps into the station before Kyungsoo falls into step beside him. The precinct is bustling at this time of day, but his boots clunk distinctively against the shiny wooden floors and cause several civilians in the waiting room to turn and stare. He’s got a thick file in one hand and an enormous coffee in the other, as usual.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Do Kyungsoo is not one to, as they say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>give a single fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  He breaks the uniform code on a daily basis simply because he thinks their hats are stupid. He’s also been employee of the month twice since joining the force less than a year ago.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re late,” is his only greeting. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin punches in his employee number, taps his ID, and steals Kyungsoo’s coffee. It’s lukewarm—blegh—and reeks of hazelnut—also blegh. He makes a twisted, ugly face and passes the cup back in disappointment. He’s truly suffering today, isn’t he?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin shrugs. “I have a perp in the cruiser.” He follows Kyungsoo back to his desk, where they sit in opposite spinny chairs. “Any new leads?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Forget the perp. We do have a lead, one that you apparently already knew about.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Huh?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kyungsoo slides a paper across the table and adjusts the potted cactus at the corner of his desk while Jongin reads. The papers are a transcripted interview, dated yesterday, between Kyungsoo and Mr. Ong from the laundromat. He can’t immediately see anything amiss.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Byun Baekhyun’s mother.” Kyungsoo leans forward and jabs a finger at the line of dialogue from Mr. Ong. “Broke her </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span> by having a child. Which Mr. Ong apparently told you last week.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chagrined, Jongin slumps back in the seat. “I did know that already.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But it wasn’t in the official report.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know.” He slides the paper across the desk and steeples his hands on his knees. “Um. That’s my fault. I wasn’t hiding it from you, I swear, I just—it seemed too personal. That was before things got complicated and I didn’t want it recorded yet.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kyungsoo shakes his head. “I’m not upset. But do you know what this means?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He leans forward and lowers his voice to a stressed whisper. “Byun Baekhyun is </span>
  <em>
    <span>cursed</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin’s first instinct is to laugh. He casts his eyes around the office, lingering on the regular congestion around the coffee machine where Soonyoung is slapping Mark on the back and laughing, all totally normal things. Niamh’s Hollow is a strange place, but curses are a step stranger than the </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The idea makes him very uneasy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kyungsoo raises his eyebrows. He’s waiting for Jongin to agree.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe,” Jongin sighs. “I don’t—I wouldn’t know what that means.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“His whole existence goes against the </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Against God, or the laws of the universe, or whatever. He shouldn’t even be alive.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What are you saying?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shuffling the papers back into the file, Kyungsoo hesitates. Even his strong and stoic partner is wary, which makes Jongin feel even worse. Kyungsoo has </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> been one to shy away from sharing his opinions. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m saying,” he starts, then pauses again. “Maybe Niamh’s Wood is just trying to take him back. Nature erasing an unnatural thing. Maybe there’s nothing we can do.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin shakes his head. He thinks of Sehun back in the cruiser, waking up early on his day off to hunt Jongin down at the donut shop and weasel his way into the investigation. He thinks of Baekhyun’s empty eyes in that parking lot and how Chanyeol ran to him without a second thought. How could a love like that be cursed? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Braving a final sip of the hazelnut monstrosity, Jongin stands. “He’s still a missing person. And that doesn’t explain Chanyeol’s weird coma or disappearance. I’m not ruling out drugs yet.” He sighs and rubs a hand over his face, where he’s pretty sure he can feel wrinkles developing. “Sargeant put me on a stakeout at the western perimeter of Niamh’s Wood today. I’ll let you know if there are any updates.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kyungsoo spreads his hands. “Look, I hope I’m wrong.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin turns to leave. “So do I.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Call for backup if you need any.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turns and gives a little salute, to which Kyungsoo just frowns. They both know this case is nothing ordinary even if Jongin won’t admit it. He just can’t give up on Baekhyun and Chanyeol, not yet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>By the time he snags two state-of-the-art binoculars and returns to the cruiser, Sehun is dead asleep in the passenger seat. His head is tilted back and his mouth is gaping open. Jongin slides into the driver’s seat and shuts his door quietly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun is an ER nurse, he’s probably exhausted indefinitely—so Jongin preemptively turns down the radio before starting the car and driving away. He takes the turns extra slowly, grateful that Sehun at least still has his seatbelt on, and the drive through town is peaceful. He can almost pretend he’s driving to the nature preserve for a weekend away with his—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Friend. Acquaintance. Partner? Whatever Sehun is to him, which is definitely no one romantic. Jongin needs to stop watching Hallmark movies and listening to his sister’s ballad playlists.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sneaks a glance at Sehun and almost drives into a bush when they make eye contact.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Holy god.” Jongin clutches his own chest with one hand. “You’re awake. Um. Were you just… watching me drive?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“For a couple of minutes, yeah,” Sehun says shamelessly. He yawns and stretches both arms above his head so that his sweater rises up and reveals a smooth, pale stomach.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin zeroes in on the road ahead. They’re climbing a low hill at the edge of the woods. Trees grow thicker together as they drive, passing the deer crossing sign and a NO HUNTING proclamation from the city board posted ten years ago. This area hasn’t seen real tourism since his parents were young.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, uh.” He pulls into a small clearing with old hiking maps tacked to a rusted metal board. “We’re here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun looks around with interest. A slow-moving squirrel crosses in front of the cruiser, but otherwise the clearing is empty and quiet, shaded by outstretched branches. It would be a peaceful place for a picnic, if the stories weren’t true. If these woods weren’t cursed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Now what?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin kills the engine and passes a pair of binoculars to Sehun. “Now we wait.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s it.” Sehun looks at the binoculars in his long fingers. “That’s the investigation. Waiting?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay, it doesn’t look like much. But based on closed missing persons reports from the past thirty years—which I read, all of them—</span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> is the spot most likely to see the uncanny.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They sit in uncomfortable silence while Jongin fumbles to adjust his binoculars. Policework isn’t sexy. It’s rarely adventurous or high-stakes and that’s why he</span>
  <em>
    <span> likes</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. This spot is logical. Cleverness and patience are their best chances at outwitting whatever unseen force Baekhyun and Chanyeol are fighting against, be it drugs or depression or </span>
  <em>
    <span>curses</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun sighs and adjusts his seat back so he can lounge. “Sir yes sir.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sehun—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, sorry,” he waves him off with a closed-lip smile. “I know, Officer.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’re gonna be here a while.” Jongin cracks the glove department and unearths a large bottle of water, which he takes a long drink from. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “Can I ask—did you know? About Baekhyun and his mother?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun turns his face toward Jongin. They’re at a strange angle for a conversation, with Sehun lying back, but his stare is intense. “What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shit. Now Jongin’s gone and revealed personal details of an open case. “Oh. I thought since you’re friends... ”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m closer to Chanyeol.” Sehun looks away, casting his eyes out the window. “Actually, I don’t think Baekhyun ever liked me. And the feeling was mutual.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That idea had never once occurred to Jongin. Sehun was the one to submit the original missing persons report for Baekhyun, and took over as his nurse immediately upon check-in to St. Anthony’s, and looked absolutely gutted when he ran away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin slides the water bottle into his cupholder, feeling foolish and surprised and for some reason, vulnerable. Talking to Sehun always makes him feel some combination of those things, even in their fleeting stalkerish conversations from the past week.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re very kind,” Jongin says. “To care about this case so much.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s Chanyeol,” Sehun replies easily. “He’s special.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The words linger in the car for a moment before Sehun’s eyes widen. He scrunches up his nose. “Not like</span>
  <em>
    <span> that</span>
  </em>
  <span> or anything, he smells like feet and never shuts up. There’s just… nevermind.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s the first time Jongin has seen Sehun less than totally composed. What an interesting role reversal. He should be looking out the windows, keeping track of how the trees move and listening for odd noises, but his attention is only half focused outside. There’s a sheen of pink on Sehun’s cheeks that he can’t look away from.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, tell me.” Jongin sits up straighter. “I mean, if you’re comfortable. I’d love to hear about it. You know, for the case.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun sits up too. His hair sticks out adorably in the back, but he senses it and pats it back to perfection quickly. He fiddles with the radio and clears his throat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Chanyeol is one of my favorite people in the world. He’s thoughtful, and selfless, and compassionate.” Sehun leans back against the seat. His eyes are warm. “And I used to worry about him, because the world is usually cruel to people like that, you know? But that’s not the case here. Chanyeol is </span>
  <em>
    <span>ridiculously fucking lucky</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Lucky?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He nods emphatically. “He finds money on the ground, he wins every game of poker, he always hears his favorite song on the radio. Fish take his bait, strangers hit on him at the grocery store. On his birthday, it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>always </span>
  </em>
  <span>sunny. In November. Fucking sunny.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Jongin says.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He didn’t peg Sehun as the type to believe in the uncanny, but Sehun continues, counting on his fingers each lucky event until he runs out of fingers, breathless like he can’t stop now that he’s started. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And there’s more,” Sehun says. “Sometimes he hears things. Or he’ll be talking to himself, but not really talking to </span>
  <em>
    <span>himself</span>
  </em>
  <span>, like someone else is in the room. But there’s no one there. It sounds weird, Jongin, but I’ve heard it multiple times and he always lies about it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s something so serious and desperate in Sehun’s voice—a far cry from his level-headed approach to medicine—that moves Jongin. He listens more to Sehun’s passion than his words. Maybe he’s right, and if he’s right then maybe Kyungsoo is right, and if Kyungsoo is right then Jongin is in big trouble.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe they’re dealing with something beyond their control. Something unexplainable.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So you’re saying,” he interrupts. “That Chanyeol is lucky and he hears things.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun frowns. “When you say it like that, it sounds like nothing. But, yes. I’m not exactly surprised that something unusual happened to him, because </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> unusual.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin is a boring guy. He knows this. He enjoys this. He can’t imagine flipping open his notebook and writing </span>
  <em>
    <span>park chanyeol </span>
  </em>
  <span>— </span>
  <em>
    <span>propensity for the unusual </span>
  </em>
  <span>and handing </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>to the Sergeant, but Jongin isn’t close-minded. He wraps his hands around the steering wheel for something to hold onto, because he’s about to change his own world.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” he says again, slower this time. “I believe you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A smile spreads across Sehun’s face. Sunlight breaks through the clouds and sends beams shattering over the forest, lighting the muggy air with green and gold, as he says, “Really?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I do.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, Officer.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>IN DREAMS HE REMEMBERS—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol’s first day at the fire station goes terribly wrong.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s a brand-new graduate from the academy, and he’s the only one with a vocational degree, so </span>
  <em>
    <span>of course</span>
  </em>
  <span> he’s going to stand out, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>of course</span>
  </em>
  <span> Niamh’s Hollow is so tiny that everyone already knows the story of Yoora and her tragic accident.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Needless to say he’s nervous. So nervous he shoves his plate of unfinished bacon at Sehun forty-five minutes before he’s scheduled to clock in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re gonna be the lamest person on planet fucking Earth if you get there an hour early.” Sehun calls, daintily wiping his mouth with a napkin. How he manages to eat greasy, dribbling bacon without spilling on his scrubs is a mystery. “I’m telling you, play it cool. Don’t let those guys laugh at you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t the hospital.” Chanyeol double-checks his collared polo. “No one’s about to haze me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s what </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>think. I was ready for St. Anthony’s initiation and I still have nightmares about the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Operation!</span>
  </em>
  <span> drinking game.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol pauses with his hand halfway into his bag, rifling for his keys. “That seems… unprofessional. And immoral.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun rolls his eyes and sips his coffee. “Just wait.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The drive to the station is short and does nothing to calm his nerves. There’s a storm blowing in. Dark clouds are gathering on the horizon as the trees whisper messages of luck and bravery to Chanyeol. He cruises down side streets and listens to their encouragement, words he can feel more so than hear. They’re right. He can do this. The first day is always the toughest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He parks, checks himself in the mirror, and hurries to the front doors. The waiting room is empty, but the lights are on and cheery elevator music plays over a tiny speaker on the front desk, so Chanyeol rings the bell nervously. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A young guy in chic black frames hurries around the corner. His blonde hair sticks up like the worst sort of bird’s nest and he looks vaguely familiar. “Park Chanyeol! Yeah, jeez, you look so much like your mother now.” He hesitates and glances at the clock. “You’re here for your first day?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Chanyeol sighs with relief. “I know I’m early, don’t worry. I can sit out here until you’re ready. Mister—um—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s alright, come on in.” The man waves him forward. “I’m Luhan, I worked at VIVA ARBOL for a summer. You probably don’t remember me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A memory bursts to life: a younger face, darker hair, with a neat bowtie and a lopsided smile who always ruffled Chanyeol’s hair when he walked by. Luhan, four years older and one of his first gay crush epiphanies, looks almost unrecognizeable beneath bleached blonde hair and hipster glasses. Still hot though.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol laughs and slaps a hand to his forehead. He can’t believe he didn’t know immediately. “Oh my god, Olive Oil Luhan! You got fired for stealing three bottles. Of course I remember.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That might not be the best thing to say to his new coworker, because Luhan merely spares him a closed-lip smile and begins typing into the idle desktop computer. His fingers tap the keys aggressively. “Yeah, that was a long time ago. Back when you had ferrets instead of friends.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Touché.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The printer hums to life and starts spitting out papers, the first of which reads EMPLOYEE HANDBOOK, disturbing swirls of dust that catch the gray morning light. Luhan leads him through the firehouse, pointing out rooms and faces with equal disinterest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everything looks a lot less modern than Chanyeol expected. Stains have nearly ruined the pale blue walls and rust traces along the kitchen sink. Every appliance is outdated and worn.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well, he didn’t become a firefighter for the fame and fortune. He’s here to save lives, full stop. It doesn’t matter if his assigned bunk smells like mold and sweat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol is abandoned in the living room with his handbook and instructions to read the fine print before signing. Besides Luhan, only two older men are awake, and they inspect him silently from behind mugs of black coffee without introducing themselves. He feels intimidated.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Things go downhill from there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The fire alarm goes off. Flashing red lights make Chanyeol jump up, scattering his papers all over the floor, and the older men snicker as they pour out their coffee and rush to the garage. He follows. He knows what to do—the blaring, high-pitched alarm is the same at the academy, he’s done a hundred drills and passed his practical—but his blood is pumping and he’s preemptively sweaty. This is real. No makeup exams.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he grabs a helmet, Luhan materializes beside him and slaps his hands away. “Not you, Park.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not me? I’m ready,” Chanyeol objects, clipping on the helmet anyway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s your first day.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Exactly, I’m good to go.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Luhan folds his glasses and tosses them onto a cluttered shelf. His helmet has a pink kitty sticker on the back. “Not today you’re not. Have you signed the handbook?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not yet, but—” Chanyeol glances toward two women who sprint into the garage and start pulling jackets on over their pajamas. He wants so badly to go with them, to prove himself, because he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>ready</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “I will when we get back.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He reaches for a jacket hanging in the closet. It fits over his shoulders decently well. Before Chanyeol can start on the buttons, Luhan shoves him against the wall with both hands. His breath </span>
  <em>
    <span>whooshes</span>
  </em>
  <span> out in a grunt of pain. Luhan’s eyebrows screw together and he looks </span>
  <em>
    <span>furious</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You will not,” Luhan says through gritted teeth. The women finish dressing and glance their way curiously. “If you get hurt out there and you haven’t signed the handbook, you know who loses his job? Me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Learn to take orders and get back inside.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a complete switch from the snarky and professional man from earlier. Shocked, Chanyeol can only watch as the firefighters jump into the truck one by one, fastening last-minute bootstraps and shouting orders into walkie-talkies. Luhan releases him, clips his own helmet, and climbs into the passenger seat just before the truck squeals down the driveway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They disappear down the street, sirens screeching. Chanyeol rubs at his shoulder where he collided with the wall. Shit. Maybe he’d fucked up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He returns to the empty firehouse and sits at the table. The two mugs of coffee are half-full and still hot, so Chanyeol drowns his sorrows in caffeine and finishes them both before collecting his paperwork from the floor. Protocol states that someone else must be at the house—it’s illegal to leave the station unmanned—but he doesn’t hear a peep.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>By the time Chanyeol finishes thoroughly reading and signing his paperwork, the firefighters haven’t returned and he’s guiltily restless. How can he make up for his earlier blunder? He’s impulsive and enthusiastic, he knows that, but he doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>usually </span>
  </em>
  <span>make such a bad first impression.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His first day definitely sucks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol pokes around the kitchen. Truly, it’s in a sad state, but he locates a box of cleaning wipes and solution under the sink. Perfect. He can make himself useful alright—with a little kitchen prep, Mama Park style. He braces his knees for pain and starts a deep clean.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Almost two hours later, according to the analog clock on the wall, the front door opens. The two women from earlier enter, soot on their chins and hair messed up. They stagger, complaining loudly, up the stairs towards the showers. They don’t spare him a single glance. Chanyeol slowly puts away the mop.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If he was shocked to see the change in those women, he’s even more startled to see what Luhan looks like after hours in the field.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Luhan’s helmet is still on his head, crooked and filthy, casting a dark shadow over his face. One hand grips a bandage wrapped around his forearm. He walks confidently into the kitchen, bypassing Chanyeol like he’s a fly, and grabs a beer from the fridge. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol opens his mouth to ask how it went, but thinks better of speaking. There’s no way he can help. This is somehow worse than any hazing—he’s completely ignored for the next thirty minutes while everyone shuffles upstairs to shower and change. He sits lonely on the sofa and watches the clock tick the afternoon away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eventually Luhan returns with wet hair and softer eyes. He’s dressed down now, in a plain blue t-shirt that makes him look far younger than his wrinkles suggest. Now Chanyeol can see the handsome waiter from years ago in his face. Silently he sits beside him on the sofa.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry for yelling at you earlier.” Luhan picks up the TV remote and runs his thumb over the buttons. “I should’ve explained better, it’s just been a tough week for us. There was a house fire two towns over and we got called in as backup—too little too late.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.” Chanyeol looks away from the clock to study the remote in Luhan’s delicate hands. It’s less intimidating than looking him in the face yet. He’s still too embarrassed. “I should’ve listened to you the first time.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, it’s okay.” Luhan turns on the TV and flips to a football match. “We were all fresh meat at some point. I was definitely smarter, though.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One of the older men emerges from the staircase just in time to snort. “Don’t lie, asshole. I remember your first day.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Luhan cranes his neck back to shout indignancies. They start squabbling, similar to the way Chanyeol once squabbled with Yoora, and he watches. It’s kinda cute, and kinda makes him feel even more alone. It’ll take years of work for him to establish that dynamic with the other firefighters. Chanyeol’s impatient—he just wants to fast-forward and include himself in their jokes already.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The older man shakes his head a final time at Luhan and extends his hand to Chanyeol. “Mr. Park, it’s a pleasure. I’m Dan.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nice to meet you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How’s the restaurant doing? God, it’s been years since I last went, we’ll have to order takeout one of these nights. Li keeps raving about the spaghetti...”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Thus Chanyeol’s first shift improves. Luhan files his paperwork and assigns him a real, true, official helmet. And suit. And chore schedule. He’s working no overnight shifts for the first three months, which is a blessing, so he gets to sleep at home while the others clock out or settle in for a night at the firehouse. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Except Chanyeol doesn’t go home to his apartment after work. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The trees are whispering again—they were blessedly quiet that afternoon, but now at dusk they’re loud and congratulatory. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You did it</span>
  </em>
  <span>, they call. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Celebrate. Go home. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he can’t shake the guilt from screwing up that morning. So Chanyeol stops by VIVA ARBOL to kiss his mother on the cheek, then goes to the only place he feels truly relaxed. Baekhyun’s house. He bangs the knocker uninvited and unannounced, holding a bag of chicken parmesan and hoping his best friend is actually home.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun opens the door in plaid pajama pants. “Hey, what—is that chicken parm?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Chanyeol jiggles the bag. “Do you want some?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Um, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They settle at the table and it’s only three bites in that Baekhyun thinks to ask, “How was your first day of work?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It was okay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chewing noises stop. Baekhyun wipes his mouth and squints. He knows that tone of voice, probably, and Chanyeol fidgets under the attention. He shoves a huge bite of chicken into his mouth. Hot cheese oozes over his fingers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun licks his lips. “Do you wanna talk about it?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol shakes his head. “Can we watch a movie after this?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure.” Baekhyun sighs a little. “I finished my grading already. But if you want to talk…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe later.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Later, in the middle of an argument between Sherlock and Watson, Chanyeol reaches across Baekhyun’s lap and pauses the movie. They’re lying side-by-side in bed—under sheets they’ve soiled plenty of times before, which is distracting—but he needs to stop and breathe. He’s had a loud, intrusive thought.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wouldn’t it be nice if he moved from his and Sehun’s apartment into Baekhyun’s house?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yeah sure, they have sex pretty regularly, but they’re</span>
  <em>
    <span> not</span>
  </em>
  <span> dating. They’re best friends. It wouldn’t be too soon to live together, they’ve been best friends for years. They wouldn’t screw it up or make things weird.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol imagines it for a split second and can’t stop imagining: early morning pancakes and dancing in the kitchen, coming home to sneak kisses instead of dirty dishes, his best friend only a room away. There’s a guest bedroom facing the backyard that’s only used to store winter clothes right now. He could pay rent and help Baekhyun with the bills, too—it’d be perfect.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun turns his head inquisitively, eyes droopy with sleep, lit by the screen and the moon in equal measure. He’s gorgeous. He looks up and Chanyeol forgets everything he wanted to ask—something about spending the night forever.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hmm?” Baekhyun hums.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol just kisses him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As usual—always—Baekhyun responds happily. He leans into Chanyeol and guides him with a hand on his chest. They curl together, hip to hip, as they kiss. Baekhyun is warm and possessive when he rolls onto Chanyeol’s lap, caging him between his thighs and moving with purpose and heat. Chanyeol runs teeth along his neck just to hear him sigh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Afterwards he falls asleep to the sounds of Baekhyun’s breathing and the trees humming something melodious and light.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>IN DREAMS HE IS REMEMBERED.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Chanyeol opens his eyes, he’s in a completely different part of the forest. The tree he climbed to catch fireflies is gone. Instead he’s lying at the edge of a rugged cliff above a raging river. Rocks jut from the water at sharp angles, like teeth rising from the mouth of an ancient beast.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he peeks over the side, he displaces a handful of dirt and rocks that tumble into the white foam meters below, and he jerks backward in fright.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol has never been to this river before. He didn’t know Niamh’s Wood had such a strong body of water anywhere. He brushes off his pants and stands, feeling an ache in his shoulders and back. How long was he asleep? The trees are murmuring contentedly beside him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He fumbles his phone out of his bag. It lights up enough to read 2:03pm before it dies. Great, he’s lost and alone with no idea what day it is. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why did you move me?” Chanyeol angrily takes a sip from his water bottle. “Can’t you just take me to—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Where is he going?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s going </span>
  <em>
    <span>somewhere</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Baekhyun.” The name is torn from him in a gasp. A piercing pain slices into his forehead and Chanyeol falls to his knees, clutching his hair. “Why am I going to Baekhyun? Where is he? What’s happening?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The disorientation is staggering until it comes back to Chanyeol in a series of images: a missing persons poster with Baekhyun’s face, a hospital room, the flashing memories inside each firefly. He’s looking for Baekhyun, who is lost and alone. He fills his lungs with fresh air that smells like moss and mud. Pain recedes slowly until he hears cheerful chattering from the trees. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s right, you’re going home</span>
  </em>
  <span>, they remind him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Almost there, almost there! We have to rush you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Home,” Chanyeol echoes. “I don’t remember…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He has a mother. This he knows deep in his soul. He has friends, and a job, and a past beyond this journey through the trees, but he can’t picture any of it. Only Baekhyun. Laughing, stoic, disappointed, crying, and everything in between. A face he knows better than his own. He’s looking for Baekhyun.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol wipes away the startled tears that sprang from his eyes when the pain started. When he stands, the pack feels lighter across his shoulders and he sees a clear path through the woods outlined in gold sunlight. A blue butterfly skates past his ear.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This journey began in desperation, sunk into ease, and now will end in fearful determination. Chanyeol won’t give up. He doesn’t entirely know where he’s going, or why, but he does know </span>
  <em>
    <span>who</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And that’s all that matters.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m coming, Baekhyun,” he says.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol starts walking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As he goes, he loses what’s left—his name, his age, his face, peeling away from his memories like dandelion seeds swept away by a gentle breeze. After only a few moments, he is just a man.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The tall man walks down a dirt path through the woods. Suddenly a black cat streaks over a rock headed in his direction and he freezes, startled, while her yellow eyes fix forward. She slows. They stare at each other. In her eyes, the man sees a recognition he can’t reciprocate.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She flicks her tail and pads softly away, deeper into the trees. The man understands without words that she is presenting him with an option: he could follow her to someplace new.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hesitates. Should he follow the cat deeper into the forest? Or should he continue further into the unknown with no guide?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The cat disappears into the undergrowth and the man continues along the path.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The tall man walks under the warm embrace of an oak tree and breaks into a gorgeous, flowering meadow. Sweet floral scents stops him in his tracks. The man closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s so beautiful, he thinks, with no concern for the quest which brought him here.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s about to settle into a shady spot at the edge of the meadow to rest when he sees a shape in the grass. Just ahead, baking under the sun, is an unfamiliar head of silver-white hair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Curious, he approaches. The man in the flowers is lying flat on his back, crushing a bed of petunias, with his beautiful face framed in purple petals. He’s unearthly pale and looks almost sickly—in fact, he could be dead if not for the slow rise of his chest. His arms are tossed haphazardly over the flowers like he’d just thrown himself down in a fit of exhaustion.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” the tall man says. “Are you okay?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>An eye cracks open. “Hmmm?” The man sits up and stares. He has no pupils, only eyes of pure shocking white. “Oh hi. Are you here to save me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I thought…” He frowns. His mouth is beautiful and expressive, but he looks like a kicked puppy when he’s unhappy. “Nevermind, sorry. I thought I was waiting for someone.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The circumstances are strange, and the tall man has a lingering feeling like he should be doing something else. Maybe he’s wasting his time talking to this silver-haired beauty in the meadow. Then again, he doesn’t know what it is he </span>
  <em>
    <span>should </span>
  </em>
  <span>be doing—he feels dreamy and light. It’s wonderful, but lonely. His head is a big place to hear nothing but echoes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So the tall man sits beside this stranger. “I think I’m waiting for someone, too. Do you mind if I sit with you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The stranger smiles, and he’s beautiful. “Sure.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nice weather today.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Absolutely.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They sit in camaraderie. Sounds of the forest are loud in the background—trilling birdsong, buzzing insects dancing from flower to flower, a distant rushing river. The epitome of peace. Leaning back on his hands, the taller man thinks he could fall asleep here and stay forever.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A rustling sound disturbs him. The silver-haired man is sitting up straighter, eyes cast over the treetops, watching clouds form idyllic shapes. It’s a picturesque scene, but he doesn’t smile, and something in the depths of his white eyes speaks of pain.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Who are you waiting for, anyway?” The tall man asks before can help himself. “We’re in the middle of… here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t remember. Who are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>waiting for?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shrugs. “I don’t remember either. I think I’m waiting for…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Baekhyun.” The silver-haired man suddenly turns to him with wide eyes. “You’re waiting for Baekhyun, right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That name feels correct on his tongue when he whispers it—familiar like muscle memory, familiar like a prayer. The tall man shields his eyes against the sun for a better look at this stranger. “Maybe, yeah.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>My </span>
  </em>
  <span>name is Baekhyun.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is it?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure it is.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The man named Baekhyun stands up. He’s shorter than he looks, but moves with purpose. He starts walking across the meadow with determination, stomping over a patch of violet-and-white marigolds. Suddenly he stops and glances backward. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Aren’t you coming?” Baekhyun calls.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The tall man has no idea what to choose. This meadow is beautiful, the most beautiful he can ever remember seeing, and he doesn’t want to leave. Here is peaceful. Here is safe. He feels that deep in his bones and knows it to be true.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And yet…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s just something about this guy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun extends a hand and bites his lip as if nervous. There are two clear options: the tall man could take his hand and follow, or stay here in this forest that feels like home. Whichever way he goes, the man has a feeling he won’t be able to change his mind later. This is a forever decision.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The man takes Baekhyun’s hand and, suddenly, the man remembers his own name. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Chanyeol.” Baekhyun’s eyes fly wide. His pupils spark and expand until they’re a normal brown color, lit to gold by the sunlight. “Chanyeol, what—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Like an empty cup being refilled, Chanyeol’s head explodes with wet, visceral memories. In a split second he experiences his whole life over again, from screaming birth through fuzzy toddling babyhood, to growth and pain and love. Scorching orange flames, soft black scarves, mint lemonade. A million pieces of himself colliding together at once. He remembers hiking through the forest to arrive here.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dizzy, he falls to his knees, and Baekhyun follows suit at his side. Their hands are gripped between them. Chanyeol hears himself gasping for air, like he was underwater too long, and looks up through eyes blurry with tears.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Baekhyun.” He repeats the name which he forgot, holding it in his mouth like glass. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Baekhyun</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I found you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re here.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol’s body trembles once, twice, as if shocked from absorbing years of memories at once. Then he forces himself up on wobbly knees. He feels taller, like the world has righted itself around his frame, and he helps balance Baekhyun until they can properly embrace. He wraps his arms around his best friend and it feels like coming home.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What happened to us?” Baekhyun whispers into his neck. “Your hair’s white.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So is yours.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They separate to inspect each other. Baekhyun looks like he did just after his mother’s death—skin pale, eyes puffy and red, skinnier than normal. His cheekbones look gorgeous, but it hurts Chanyeol to see them so accentuated when he knows it’s from a lack of proper nutrition. He grabs Baekhyun’s elbow to keep them anchored together.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun touches his own hair with a blank face. “Oh. I don’t understand...”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It was the trees.” Chanyeol scans the meadow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their surroundings look innocuous enough, like the hundreds of meadows he’s found in Niamh’s Wood before, but now takes on a sinister, sickly-sweet appearance. Are the trees whispering about them? Will they try to stop Baekhyun and Chanyeol from leaving? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They’re not whispering, and somehow that’s worse.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He moves his hand down from Baekhyun’s elbow. Chanyeol laces their fingers together. “We need to get out of here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun nods, then looks violently nauseated. His face screws up as he takes in the meadow and his shoulders inch up like a cowering turtle. “Okay, talk later, escape now. Do you know the way?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We should run.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol looks over at him—this gorgeous, soft-spoken, courageous boy, the hero of his heart—and nods. “Together.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun squeezes his hand. “Together.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They sprint for the trees.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h4>
  <span>CHAPTER 8</span>
</h4><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I clutched my life and wished it kept</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>My dearest love, I’m not done yet</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>How many years, I know I’ll bear</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>I found something</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>In the woods somewhere</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>—Hozier, In the Woods Somewhere</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>By the time the sun sets, Jongin and Sehun have cleaned out three bags of chips, two takeout burgers, ice creams from the deli off the highway, and a half-crushed bag of crackers from the backseat that may or may not have been left behind by a vandal last week.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now a dark navy blue commandeers the sky as night creeps in. An unseen owl hoots in the distance. It’s been quiet all day, and they only have thirty minutes before Jongin is scheduled to return back to the station and report his findings. Too bad he’s found zilch. Nada. Nothing. Not even the odd off-season hiker to spice up the afternoon.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin sighs. He pops open the door to stretch his legs above the dirt. Sehun fell asleep twenty minutes ago after a whole afternoon of pleasant—sometimes tender—conversations, and now the nurse is curled tightly in the seat with his head against the glass. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Watching Sehun sleep makes Jongin feel slimy, but he keeps stealing glances at him anyway. Here is someone quietly passionate, dedicated to his craft and his loved ones, snarky in the best way, who should be far too interesting to give Jongin the time of day. But he’d stuck with Jongin the whole time and didn’t complain once. He made the hours pass much quicker.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a huge part of him that wants to see Sehun again. Properly, not shoved into the front seat of a police cruiser at the edge of an allegedly haunted wood. Maybe a dinner, maybe a club, if Jongin were the type of person to go to clubs, which Sehun most certainly is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Too bad there’s an open investigation between them. The legality of Sehun’s involvement is questionable, but Jongin sees him as a sort of civilian partner now, and he can’t in good conscience make a move when they’re kinda-sorta coworkers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As quietly as he can, he shuts the door and starts the car. The gentle rolling of the engine is enough to wake Sehun and his head snaps up. “Oh, fuck. Did I miss…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His eyes take in the darkening sky, the car empty aside from Jongin, the empty chip bags on the floor. The hope in his face dies. “Still nothing?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Still nothing.” Jongin puts the car in drive. “Sorry for waking you up, I have to report back to the station soon.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun’s hand shoots out to cover Jongin’s hand on the steering wheel. “Wait.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you see something?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No. I just have a feeling.” He squints at the edge of the trees, where undergrowth is being eaten by shadows. “Five more minutes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sehun…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun’s hand briefly tightens around Jongin’s before it draws back. “Please.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin is so weak to pretty nurses. He shuts off the car and they sit in an unbearable silence for several seconds. A tiny mosquito bats against the windshield and Jongin follows it with his eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for doing all this,” Sehun says softly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turns sideways in his seat, facing Jongin, both knees drawn to his chest. His legs are so long he barely fits, but Sehun succeeds in making himself appear younger and more innocent. Looking at him reminds Jongin of why he joined the police force in the first place—to protect those who needed protection. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m just doing my job.” Jongin shrugs. He’s not so idealistic anymore. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re being really nice to me.” Sehun smiles a little. “And I’m a brat.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin shrugs again. He looks over and realizes how close they’re sitting. Practically nose to nose. So close he can almost count Sehun’s eyelashes. His cheeks feel hot. “Oh, no you’re not, really, um—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Suddenly a flash of blinding yellow light eclipses his vision.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin and Sehun flinch, both raising a hand to block their eyes from the forest, but the light dies as quickly as it grew. Two silhouettes are stumbling out of the dark copse of trees. Jongin blinks furiously until he can properly see who’s emerging from the gloom.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Holy shit,” he gasps. “It’s them.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Scrambling for the seatbelt, he practically falls out of the cruiser in his haste to get to Baekhyun and Chanyeol. Jongin hears Sehun whisper, “Oh my </span>
  <em>
    <span>god</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” as he tumbles from the shotgun seat. Leaves crunch under their feet as they run.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At first, Baekhyun and Chanyeol appear to be blanched by the rising moonlight. Their hair is startlingly silver—white in some angles and gray in others—and their skin sickly pale. They stumble into the clearing together, Baekhyun’s arm wrapped around Chanyeol’s back to support him, both wide-eyed and out of breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They look like they’ve run a week-long marathon through the untamed wilderness. Which, they probably have.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun flinches away from his sudden approach and Jongin’s heart falls. He hesitates two steps away, hands outstretched, because he wants to help but doesn’t know what state they’re in psychologically. If they even remember who they are.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun has none of the same concerns. He barrels into the pair, nearly tipping all three bodies to the ground before righting himself and clinging to Chanyeol’s shoulders. He gathers them both into his long arms and looks between them with shiny eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you okay?” He asks, voice thick.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is the moment of truth. Jongin swallows hard and watches their faces for a spark…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol blinks. He moves a hand up Sehun’s back. “Sehun?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’re okay,” Baekhyun mutters hoarsely. “We’re okay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin leans forward, bracing himself with both hands on his knees. Thank</span>
  <em>
    <span> fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>. They’re of sound mind at least. The next few minutes pass in a panicked rush. Chanyeol and Baekhyun are bundled into the backseat, Sehun calls the hospital and starts delegating to his co-workers, and the last haze of sunset disappears.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That’s the scene they leave behind—an empty space at the edge of the woods, shrouded in darkness, which Jongin has to squint through while he drives with hazard lights on. He calls the Chief and relays their status over speakerphone. It’s so chaotic he almost forgets about their passengers in the backseat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he glances in the mirror to check on their status, Jongin isn’t surprised to see Baekhyun and Chanyeol dead asleep on each other’s shoulders. He flaps a hand at Sehun, who cranes around. The softest smile graces his face. They grin at each other across the dashboard and Jongin’s heart swells. They did it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their first stop is the hospital. When Sehun tries to lead them into separate rooms, Chanyeol just shakes his head and pulls Baekhyun to sit beside him on the same chair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tests are conducted quickly and they’re both deemed in good physical health, with minor symptoms of dehydration and hunger. They speak as little as possible. A nurse offers rehydration salts and granola bars.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun is like a neat little hurricane around the room, completing every task on his long checklist, until he satisfies himself enough to join Jongin leaning against the opposite wall.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re doing great.” Jongin wiggles his notepad out of his pocket and clicks his pen. “Mind giving an official statement that the missing persons are stable and recovering?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sehun rubs at the corners of his eyes. “Sure. Thanks for waiting.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s no problem. I have a feeling their statements won’t tell me anything.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Probably not.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They watch as Baekhyun takes a long swig of rehydration saltwater and makes a disgusted face. He wipes his mouth with one sleeve and passes the bottle to Chanyeol. Trading swigs across the bed, eyes glued to each other, they look like a couple at a college party. Jongin once again feels his eyes light up. He’s just delighted to see them happy and safe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin glances at Sehun to find the nurse already watching him. He looks away quickly and clears his throat. Oh, jeez, his cheeks and ears are heating up under the attention. Sehun just has the most magnetic eyes…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Um,” he says, just to break the sudden silence. “Do you think I can start the interviews? Chanyeol first.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Jongin was right. The interviews tell him nothing. Chanyeol describes himself leaving the hospital, grabbing clothes from the firehouse, walking into the forest…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then nothing.” Chanyeol shrugs. “I just can’t remember.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin puts his pen down, disappointed. He doesn’t know this man well enough to tell if he’s lying, but he recalls the way Sehun pushed Chanyeol for truthful answers in the hospital. “Are you sure?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yup.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re not just saying that so I leave you alone?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nope.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin closes his notebook. “Okay. You’re all set. Send in Baekhyun, please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>After the police interview, Baekhyun is dropped off at home by the awkward, cheerful Officer Kim, and he stands in his driveway for several long minutes just to breathe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The moon is full and blinding. It hangs above his chimney, casting light over the overgrown weeds in the front yard where he used to capture grasshoppers, and the scene looks at once comforting and shockingly unfamiliar. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He feels different. Inside. He doesn’t know why—maybe that’s a side effect of being hollowed out like a pumpkin and then refilled in a snap—but Baekhyun can’t stop running his fingers over his wrists, his arms, his collarbones. The parts of himself he can reach. Physically he’s the same, which doesn’t feel right because of how much his insides have moved around.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh god, his students. They probably think he </span>
  <em>
    <span>died</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The principal will be so angry, Baekhyun needs to call him as soon as possible. But first—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He’s alive. So is Chanyeol. That’s a blessing enough for right now. Everything else can wait.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Truthfully, though, he can’t stop thinking about Chanyeol.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The only reason Baekhyun is here, taking slow steps up to his front door, is because his best friend saved his life. Because Chanyeol plunged into a dangerous, cursed forest to save him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>How can he ever repay that?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The golden eagle knocker is cold to the touch. To his horror and surprise, the door is unlocked. Has it been open this whole time? What if someone broke in and stole all his possessions? Baekhyun sighs and braces himself for the worst, as if this situation could get any worse, but when the door swings open, he just sees his living room lit softly by the lamp.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everything in its place. Exactly as he remembers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then Chanyeol walks out of the kitchen holding a steaming mug. He stops dead in the center of the room when he sees the door hanging open, blinking in a loose gray sweater with their high school mascot on the front. His hair is damp, as if he’s recently showered, and he stares at Baekhyun like a deer caught in the headlights.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” he says. “Hi. I finished my interview early and I thought I’d come here—but you weren’t around so I used the key under the rose bush, I hope that’s okay—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His next words are cut off. Baekhyun lurches forward to throw his arms around Chanyeol. The mug is fumbled onto the table so Chanyeol can hug him back. Baekhyun presses his cheek against Chanyeol’s shoulder and closes his eyes, relaxing for the first time in what feels like weeks, as they hold each other. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” he mumbles into Chanyeol’s chest. They’re both trembling slightly. From cold or shock, he can’t tell. “I’m glad you’re here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol’s arms tighten around his back. The hug has gone on too long to be platonic and Baekhyun has no intention of moving. He feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>safe</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How are you doing?” Chanyeol asks. His chest vibrates pleasantly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay. You?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Like he understands Baekhyun’s reluctance to let go, Chanyeol frog-walks them backwards down the hallway and into the bedroom. It’s exactly as he left it—covers tucked neatly, lavender candle and matches on the side table. Chanyeol bundles them into the blankets and Baekhyun allows himself to be rearranged, taken care of, cherished. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They end up face-to-face under a thin sheet. Baekhyun kicks off his pants and stares blankly at the collar of Chanyeol’s shirt. He can’t focus enough to think. The forest… did it actually happen like that? How much of his journey was a dream? A hallucination?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have something to tell you,” Chanyeol says in a small, strange voice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun looks up. “The forest…” He can’t describe it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is alive. And I can talk to it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You can </span>
  <em>
    <span>talk to it</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Baekhyun blinks. “How?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol sighs. “It’s a long story. Do you want some tea?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Because Chanyeol is an angel among men, he’s made a whole pot of chamomile—which isn’t even his favorite—and they sit upright in bed, shoulder-to-shoulder, sipping to calm the nerves. He clears his throat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun, expectant, balances his mug between his knees. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s a family thing,” Chanyeol begins. His eyelashes cast shadows over his cheekbones so that he looks dreamlike. Baekhyun laces their fingers together to prove himself wrong: this is real. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol rubs his thumb along Baekhyun’s wrist and goes on to explain his lineage has always been able to speak with the trees. Since the town was first founded, his family have been here listening and </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span>-less. It’s a gift, his mother used to say, that you grow out of when you have children. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So your mom could speak to the trees, too?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol nods. “And Yoora could, but she hated them.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That makes perfect sense to Baekhyun. Thinking back to what he remembers about Niamh’s Wood—even now, the pieces are tremulous and nauseating in his memory—he doesn’t ever want to go back. White foxes and blood and a dark, dark sky… he shudders and sips his tea.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He tries to voice his next question. “The things I saw… were they…?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Real?” Chanyeol searches his face. “That depends. Did they feel real?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think so.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then they probably were, to some degree. Sometimes the forest would show me things it wanted me to see. Even when they looked like dreams—” Chanyeol dips his chin and a shadow falls across his face. “—or bad acid trips, or something, they usually left physical evidence that they were real.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wow.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol clears his throat. “I’m still not sure </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span> the forest is. If it’s Nature, like the old legends say. Or if it’s from God. Maybe both somehow.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They absorb that confession in silence. The forest could easily be both—a leftover slice of Biblical magic, or a curse from Mother Nature herself. Like a twisted reimagining of Eden. Then what does that make Chanyeol?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun watches the shadow of the tree outside his window sway with a nighttime breeze. Part of him never wants to leave the house again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why did you run from the hospital?” Chanyeol breaks the silence. “Sehun said you just disappeared.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I felt like I </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> to go back.” Baekhyun fiddles with the sheet, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger reverently. “I thought it was intuition, but maybe it was the trees fucking with me. It’s so strange to remember… not remembering.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I get that.” Chanyeol untangles Baekhyun’s hand from the sheet and presses it against his lips. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The action warms Baekhyun. He flips his wrist around and caresses Chanyeol’s face once, softly, before pulling away and gripping his mug with tight hands. Gratitude threatens to overflow from his eyes. If he starts touching Chanyeol now, he’ll never stop.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I just can’t believe you don’t have a </span>
  <em>
    <span>geasa</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Baekhyun stares at his mug. It’s pink and chipped at the rim, his mother’s old favorite. “It’s like not having a birthday. It’s a part of you, it feels wrong.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol shrugs and flicks his fringe out of his face. “Sometimes it’s scary, because I just don’t know. When, where, why, how… I could die at anytime.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not on my watch.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hah. Thanks.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Baekhyun grips Chanyeol’s hand tight again. “I’m serious. I won’t let you die.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol’s eyes soften. His mouth thins into a smile, like he can’t help it, and he looks so fond that Baekhyun loses himself. He doesn’t even think—he just leans over and kisses him, one hand rising to cup his jaw, the mug abandoned between his legs. They kiss as if no time has passed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol’s lips are warm and he opens under Baekhyun willingly. He feels the same, tastes the same, even breathes the same, and when Baekhyun teases his tongue, his inhale hitches predictably. The little noises he makes are addictive. Baekhyun forgets about the rest of the world as he moves to grip the back of Chanyeol’s neck, threading his fingers through soft silver-white hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh!” Chanyeol jerks back, eyes wide. “Your tea’s almost spilling—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quick as lightning, he reaches over and steadies the mug.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Breathless, Baekhyun settles back and moves their mugs to the side table, pushing aside the clutter. No more distractions. He has Chanyeol back and he plans to never let him go.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shoving aside the sheets between them, he dives back for Chanyeol’s mouth and holds his face steady between both hands. After a short noise of surprise, deep in his throat, Chanyeol enthusiastically returns to making out. He wraps large hands around Baekhyun’s thighs and drags him closer—a casual display of strength that has Baekhyun’s dick taking interest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>God, he missed this. He wants to take Chanyeol apart piece by piece. Make him sweat and tremble. Make him whisper Baekhyun’s name over and over again until neither of them can </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever</span>
  </em>
  <span> forget.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wait.” Chanyeol breaks the kiss </span>
  <em>
    <span>again</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Wait, hold on, Baekhyun, I love you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun stops breathing. “What.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, god.” Chanyeol keeps his hands torturously splayed—immobile—on Baekhyun’s thighs. His eyes are wide and dark. “I was too scared to tell you before, but after everything that’s happened, I’m not scared anymore. I’m in love with you. I just needed to say it.” He sits up straighter, eyes darting nervously around the room. “Not to make it weird, sorry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dude.” Baekhyun wants to laugh. “I followed you into a cursed forest. I love you, too. Obviously.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol looks like he wants to smile but he’s holding back. The light in his eyes is just out of reach. “Okay.” He raises a tender hand to push Baekhyun’s hair from his face. “That’s good. So we’re dating, right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun looks down at himself, perched half in Chanyeol’s lap. “We better be. Unless you want to friendzone me </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Definitely not.” Chanyeol leans in to press a shy kiss against his lips. “I just wanted to be… official.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s sweet, it’s understated, and it’s so totally Chanyeol. Only he would confess after several near-death experiences and a detailed explanation of how he’s some sort of supernatural creature or divine being or </span>
  <em>
    <span>both</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun takes a moment to consider the man underneath him—every inch of the wild heart, adventurous attitude, foot-in-mouth syndrome, and deep-seated savior complex that makes up Park Chanyeol. His best friend.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “If you jumped off a cliff I’d probably follow.” Baekhyun moves his hand back to Chanyeol’s jaw and further, towards his lips, which he presses against gently. They’re velvet-soft and smiley. He laughs a little and admits, “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>literally</span>
  </em>
  <span> have done that. I’ve been in love with you since, like, graduation.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Only graduation? I win.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No way.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Since sophomore year.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun blinks. “Of </span>
  <em>
    <span>high school</span>
  </em>
  <span>? We barely knew each other.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol shrugs. He’s blushing properly now, and he looks lovely in low lighting. Solid and happy. “I just had a feeling about you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why didn’t you say something?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was scared!” Chanyeol buries his face in Baekhyun’s neck, leaning forward and wrapping his arms around Baekhyun’s thin waist like he’s trying to hide in his body. They’re pressed so close he can feel both of their heartbeats against his skin, like reverberations. “Plus,” Chanyeol adds. “I made the first move.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“When?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“In the tent. On that camping trip. I asked you to keep playing the game and you kissed me, remember?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh. I thought you were just horny, it barely counts.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol’s eyes stretch wide. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>What</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” He blinks and draws back. “Like I’d do that with anyone else. What about when we kept hooking up?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun throws his head back and laughs. His hands squeeze along Chanyeol’s shoulders. “Well, yeah, but. I don’t know. You haven’t thought about kissing Yixing tipsy in a sleeping bag—?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Or getting in the jacuzzi with Jongdae—?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Somehow Chanyeol’s fingers end up jabbing into Baekhyun’s ticklish zone, right along the waistline of his pants, and he laughs so hard it hurts. Every bottled-up emotion, every minute of trauma he has yet to process, it all spills out into hysterical giggles as Chanyeol wages war on his stomach and abdomen. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They thrash until Baekhyun’s body abruptly reminds him he’s recovering from a week or longer in a mystical, aggressive forest. A wave of dizziness sends him crashing sideways into the pillows as the strength leaves his arms. Chanyeol notices immediately and freezes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You okay?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Baekhyun rubs his eyes. “Just… wow. Fucking exhausted.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Me too.” Chanyeol burrows into the sheets beside him so they’re lying face-to-face. “The trees… what did they show you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun doesn’t really want to talk about it. Not now, maybe not ever. He swallows and recalls the feeling of losing himself, mind and memory, over the course of who knows how long. It was torturous. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They showed me emptiness,” Baekhyun whispers. “Worse than grief. I had nothing, not even you. Even after my mom died, it wasn’t like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To his embarrassment, tears start to well up behind his eyes. Baekhyun takes a deep, shuddering breath and centers himself in this bed. The forest is far away and can never take hold of him again. He rubs a hand against the familiar cloth of his pillow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol reaches over to stroke a thumb across Baekhyun’s cheek. He looks heartbroken, more vulnerable than he’s ever been. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry. Thank you for coming after me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thanks for coming after </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I guess we saved each other.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun flashes back to a stupid conversation, years ago, before they really knew each other, where Chanyeol had teasingly referred to him as a sidekick. How funny it seems in retrospect. He bites his lip. “What happens now?”</span>
  <span></span>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“We should sleep. My parents are going to knock the door down when they wake up and hear my voicemail.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re staying here.” Baekhyun demands even as his eyelids droop.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol confirms this by snuggling deeper into the sheets and combing back his hair with his fingers. “I’m staying here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good,” he mumbles. “We can talk more… in the morning…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As Baekhyun drifts off to sleep, he doesn’t notice the way Chanyeol tugs him closer and stares meaningfully out the back window. Through the impenetrable dark, a hundred quiet voices can be heard whispering, joyous and celebratory, growing louder in ecstasy…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He’s home! Finally! Our blessed one</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
  <em>
    <span>home</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol turns resolutely from the window and presses his lips gently against Baekhyun’s forehead. Maybe this was their plan all along, those sadistic trees. Well, that’s right, he thinks. He’s home and he’s not ever leaving.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Epilogue</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kim Jongin is late to work again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he pulls into the station, with a large black coffee untouched in his cupholder, he sits for a quiet minute in his cruiser and reflects on the past several days. He sighs. On one hand, he’s relieved that the missing people were found safe and sound. The chief thanked him personally for his stakeout work and Jongin is proud of closing the case.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On the other hand, there are dozens of questions left unanswered. Why did Chanyeol and Baekhyun return with dyed hair? How did Baekhyun lose his memories and then regain them? What caused Chanyeol’s initial coma? Jongin has lain awake three nights in a row puzzling over the mysterious properties of Niamh’s Wood. This morning, on his slow drive to work, he came to a conclusion.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s going to formally investigate the forest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This idea might make him sound crazy to the chief, but Jongin’s prepared to—for once in his career—take a risk. He knows he’s onto something and that Kyungsoo will back him up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The </span>
  <em>
    <span>ring-ring </span>
  </em>
  <span>of his phone startles Jongin out of his thoughts. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To: Officer </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>From: Sehun</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pick me up at 7 tonight?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And promise you’ll wear the uniform this time… ;)</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A slow smile spreads across his face. He’ll have Sehun at his side, too. Things could be worse. Jongin sips his coffee and steps out of the cruiser.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But just before he reaches the main doors, Jongin hears a whisper. His name. He whips around, so startled he nearly drops his tumbler, but the parking lot is empty aside from birds flitting around the oak trees bordering the street. He scans the area once more. He must’ve imagined the sound.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jongin turns and walks into the precinct, looking forward to a bright and beautiful day.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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